Project Gutenberg's The Serapion Brethren,, by Ernst Theodor Wilhelm Hoffmann
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Title: The Serapion Brethren,
Vol. I.
Author: Ernst Theodor Wilhelm Hoffmann
Translator: Alex. Ewing
Release Date: March 29, 2010 [EBook #31820]
Language: English
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Transcriber's notes:
1. Page scan scource: Web Archive:
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2. All footnotes (5 in number) are listed at the end of the book.
3. [oe] = diphthong oe.
THE SERAPION BRETHREN.
GEORGE BELL AND SONS
LONDON PORTUGAL ST., LINCOLN'S INN.
CAMBRIDGE: DEIGHTON, BELL AND CO.
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN CO.
BOMBAY: A. H. WHEELER AND CO.
THE SERAPION BRETHREN.
BY
ERNST THEODOR WILHELM HOFFMANN.
Translated from the German
BY
MAJOR ALEX. EWING,
A.P.D.,
TRANSLATOR OF J. P. RICHTER'S "FLOWER, FRUIT, AND THORN PIECES,"
ETC.
VOL. I.
LONDON
GEORGE BELL AND SONS
1908
[_Reprinted from Stereotype plates._]
PREFACE.
Notwithstanding the popularity which several of Hoffmann's tales have
obtained in many different countries, we are not aware of any complete
or accurate translation of his works. In England they have become known
in a very partial form, chiefly by the appearance of a few isolated
tales in association with those of other writers, as in the 'Specimens
of German Romance,' or in Gillies' 'German Stories,' which were
published about 1830. Others are familiar only through the medium of a
translation from a previous French version, as is the case with the
well-known 'Nutcracker,'--and in this process of double dilution the
Author's name has sometimes disappeared altogether.
The most important attempt to present this writer to English readers
is the recent publication of two volumes entitled 'Hoffmann's Weird
Stories,' which contain eleven tales seven being from the
_Serapions-Brüder_, two from the _Nachtstücke_, and two from other parts
of his works. These stories are all separated from the setting in which,
as in the present volume, they for the most part appeared, and the
translator has not aimed at any completeness or method in their selection.
The first attempt to give English readers a satisfactory idea of
Hoffmann's work in its completeness is inaugurated by the present volume,
which will be followed by the remaining portion of the _Serapion
Brethren_, and in due course it is hoped by other portions of his works.
Musicians will be interested by the fulness with which the Author's
views on musical subjects so much in advance of his age, and so just
and accurate are developed in many places, such as the dialogue called
"The Poet and the Composer," and the conversation which precedes the
tale "Master Martin." It would be of much interest could any of
Hoffmann's numerous musical compositions be brought to light at the
present day; they appear to have been considerably in advance of their
period, although Weber's critique on one of Hoffmann's operas is full
of high praise.
A. E.
_Taunton_, _September_, 1886.
CONTENTS.
SECTION I.
PAGE
THE STORY OF SERAPION 10
THE STORY OF KRESPEL 24
AN INTERRUPTED CADENCE 54
THE POET AND THE COMPOSER 76
SECTION II.
A FRAGMENT OF THE LIVES OF THREE FRIENDS 105
THE ARTUS HOF 152
THE MINES OF FALUN 182
NUTCRACKER AND THE KING OF MICE 211
SECTION III.
THE SINGERS' CONTEST 293
AUTOMATONS 352
THE DOGE AND THE DOGARESSA 382
SECTION IV.
MASTER MARTIN, THE COOPER, AND HIS MEN 447
THE STRANGER CHILD 509
THE SERAPION BRETHREN.
SECTION I.
"Look at the question how one will, the bitter conviction is not to be
got rid of by persuasion, or by force, that what has been never, never
can be again. It is useless to contend with the irresistible power of
Time, which goes on continually creating by a process of constant
destruction. Nothing survives save the shadowy reflected images left by
that part of our lives which has set, and gone far below our horizon;
and they often haunt and mock us like evil, ghostly dreams. But _we_
are fools, and expect that matters which, in reality, were nothing but
our _ideas_, parts and portions of our own individualities, are to be
found actually existent in the world outside us, and blooming in
perpetual youth! The woman we have loved and parted from, the friend to
whom we have said good-bye, are both lost to us for ever. The people
whom, perhaps years afterwards, we meet as _being_ them, are not the
same whom we left, neither are we ever the same to them."
So saying, Lothair got up from his seat, and folding his arms on the
mantel-piece, gazed, with gloomy sadness, into the fire which was
blazing and crackling merrily.
"One thing is certain enough," said Theodore, "that, at all events,
you, dear Lothair, are so far actually the same Lothair whom I bade
good-bye to twelve years ago, that whenever any little thing vexes or
disappoints you at all, you immediately sink down to the lowest depths
of gloom and despair. It is quite true--and Cyprian, Ottmar and I feel
it as much as you that this first meeting of ours after our twelve
years' separation comes short of being quite all that we had pictured
it to be. Put the blame on me, who raced through one of those endless
streets of ours after another, leaving no stone unturned to get you all
assembled here to-night by my fireside. Perhaps I had better have left
it to chance. But I could not bear the idea that we--who had spent so
many years together in such close friendship, joined by the bonds of
our common pursuits in art and knowledge, and only driven asunder by
the hurricane which raged during that fateful time--that _we_, I say,
should come to cast anchor in the same harbour, for so much as a single
day, and yet not look upon each other with the eyes of the body, as we
had with the eyes of the spirit in the interval. And now, we have been
sitting here together for some hours, wearying ourselves to death over
the enthusiastic quality of our revived friendship, yet not one of us
has said anything worth listening to: we have talked tedious, tiresome
stuff, to a perfectly astonishing extent. And why is this, but because
we are a set of very childish children, thinking we were going to take
up the old tune which we sang twelve years ago, at the point where we
broke off with it, and go on singing it as we were doing then. Lothair,
we will say, should have read Tieck's 'Zerbino' aloud to us for the
first time, to our astonished delight; or Cyprian should have brought
some fanciful poem, or perhaps the text of a whole operatic
extravaganza, to which I should then have composed the music on the
spot, and thundered it out on the old weak-loined piano of twelve years
back; or Ottmar should have told us about some wonderful curiosity he
had come across--some remarkable wine, some extraordinary nincompoop,
etc., and set us all on fire with projects and ideas how to make the
most of our enjoyment of either, or both; and because none of all this
has happened, we sit secretly sulking at each other, each thinking (of
the other) 'Ay! what a change in the dear old fellow. Well! I never
should have believed he could have altered so!' Of course we none of us
_are_ the same. I say nothing of the circumstance that we are twelve
years older; that, no doubt, every year lays more earth upon us, which
weighs us down from aerial regions, till we go _under_ the earth at
last. But whom of us, all this time, has not the wild whirlpool carried
surging on from event to event, and from action to action? The terror,
the trouble, the anxiety of that stormy time,[1] could not pass over us
without leaving bleeding scars graven on our hearts. The pictures of
our early days are pale compared with _that_, and we cannot revive
their colours. No doubt, too, there is much in life and in ourselves
which looked very bright and glorious, and has lost its dazzling
glitter for our eyes, grown accustomed to a brighter light; but the
modes of thinking and feeling which gave rise to our friendship remain
pretty much the same. I mean that we all consider each other something
rather above the common, in suitability to each other at all events, so
as to be worthy of a thorough friendship. So let us leave the old days
out of sight, with all the promise and anticipations belonging to them,
and, starting from the conviction which I have expressed, see how we
can best establish a new bond of union."
"Heaven be thanked," said Ottmar, "that Lothair could no longer endure
the forced, unnatural condition in which we were, and that you,
Theodore, have at once exorcised the malignant little fiend which was
vexing and teasing us. This constrained feeling of 'You are bound to be
enjoying yourself, whether you really are or not,' was beginning to
stifle me, and I was just getting fearfully out of temper, when Lothair
broke out as he did. But now that Theodore has pointed out so clearly
what it was that was amiss, I seem to be brought much nearer to you
all, and things appear as if the old kindly unconstrained comfort, with
which we used to meet, were getting the upper hand. Theodore is right;
though Time has altered a good many things, our belief in each other
remains untouched. And with this, I solemnly declare the preliminaries
of our new League established; and it is laid down as a rule that we
come together once every week on a certain day--otherwise we shall lose
sight of each other in this big town, and be further asunder than
ever."
"A great idea," cried Lothair, "only you should add a few regular
rules as to our weekly meetings; for instance, that we are, or are not,
to talk upon certain subjects; or that each of us is bound to be three
times as witty as usual; or that we must always eat sardine-salad. In
this fashion, the fullest blown form of Philistinism that flourishes in
any club will burst in upon us. Don't you think, Ottmar, that anything
in the shape of a formal stipulation connected with our meetings would
at once introduce an element of constraint, destructive, at all events,
of _my_ enjoyment in them? Let me remind you of the extreme repugnance
which we used to feel towards everything in the shape of a 'club,' or
whatever name might be given to absurd institutions of the kind, where
all sorts of tedium and wearisomeness are carried forward on system.
And now you propose to force and constrain, artificially, this
four-bladed clover-plant of ours--which can only flourish and thrive
naturally without any gardener's training--into an evil form of this
sort."
"Our friend Lothair," said Theodore, "does not get out of his moods so
very quickly, that we all know; as also that when he is in them he sees
spectres, and fights with them sturdily until he is dead-beat, and
obliged to acknowledge that they _were_ nothing but spectres, the
creations of his own brain. How is it possible, Lothair, that Ottmar's
harmless and very innocent suggestion should at once set you thinking
of clubs, and the Philistinism inherent in them? All the same, you have
brought to my memory a very amusing remembrance of our former days. I
dare say you remember the time when we first left the Residency and
went to the little town of P----? The customs of society made it
incumbent on us to join the club which the so-called 'Upper ten' of the
place belonged to. We received due notification, in a solemn document,
worded in the most formal juridical style, that, after the due
formalities, we had been admitted as members; and this notification was
accompanied by a great book, of some fifteen to twenty sheets of paper,
handsomely bound, containing the Club Rules. They had been drawn up by
an old legal luminary, exactly in the style of the Prussian Municipal
Code, all divided into titles and paragraphs, and were the most
entertaining reading it is possible to conceive. For instance, one
title was superscribed, 'Concerning Women and Children, and their
Rights, and Privileges,' in which nothing more or less was sanctioned
than that the wives and daughters of the members had the privilege of
coming to tea within the precincts of the club every Thursday and
Sunday evening, and might even dance there some five or six times
during the winter. Concerning children the law was still more
accurately and critically enunciated, the jurist having handled this
subject with even more than his usual care, jealously distinguishing
between children under age, children of age, and children under
parental tutelage. Those under age were further sub-divided, according
to their moral qualities, into well-behaved, and ill-behaved, and the
latter were unconditionally debarred from admission, 'good behaviour'
being a fundamental principle of the club constitution. The next title
was the noteworthy one, 'Concerning Dogs, Cats, and other irrational
creatures,' and laid down that nobody might bring into the club any
dangerous wild beast. So that, had any member taken to himself (for
example) a lion, a tiger, or a panther by way of lapdog, it would have
been impossible for him to take it into the club. Even had its mane and
claws been cut, a schismatic of this description would have been
excluded unconditionally by the committee. Even the cleverest poodles,
and the most highly-trained pugs were declared ineligible, and might
only, (on exceptional occasions in summer, when dinner was in the open
air,) be introduced, on presentation of a card of permission by the
committee. We--Lothair and I--invented a number of addenda and
declarations supplementary to this deeply-considered codex, which we
proposed, with the most solemn gravity, at the next meeting, and, to
our great entertainment, carried the thing so far that the most
preposterous nonsense was discussed and debated on with the gravest
deliberation. But at last one or two saw through our joke, so that all
confidence in us was at an end--although our expectations were not
realised, for we had thought it a certainty that we should be solemnly
expelled from the club."
"I remember it quite well," said Lothair, "and I'm not a little annoyed
to feel that nowadays I could not carry out a similar mystification. I
have grown much too dull and sluggish, and inclined to be annoyed with
matters which used to make me laugh."
"Nothing shall induce me to believe that," said Ottmar; "rather I feel
convinced, Lothair, that the echoes of something painful are louder in
you to-day than common. But a new life will shortly breathe through you
like a breeze of spring; those jarring discords will die away, and you
will be the same Lothair that you were twelve years since. Your club at
P---- reminds me of another, whose founders must have been witty
fellows. It was on the plan of a regular kingdom, with a King,
Ministers, a Parliament, &c. Its sole _raison d'être_ was good eating,
and better drinking, and its meetings were held in the principal hotel,
where the wines and _cuisine_ were of the best. At those meetings, the
Minister for Foreign Affairs would give notice of the arrival of some
remarkably superior Rhine wine at some merchant's in the town. An
embassy would then be despatched, furnished with minute instructions,
and provided with necessary credits to be drawn against a special
reserve-fund in the hands of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. On
occasions when a _ragout_ turned out badly, everything was at sixes and
sevens. Pourparlers and diplomatic notes were exchanged relating to the
threatening aspect of the affairs of the realm. Then Parliament would
meet to decide as to the particular wine to be used on a given day in
compounding the cold punch. The decision had to be solemnly laid before
His Majesty in Council, and, after due deliberation, the King would
bow, in assent; the ordinance concerning the cold punch, duly passed,
would be remitted for execution to the Minister of the Interior. Art
and Science, also, were represented in these ceremonies; the poet who
wrote a new drinking song, and the musician who composed and performed
it, receiving a decoration from His Majesty's hands in the shape of a
red hen's feather, coupled with the permission to drink an extra bottle
of wine--at their own expense. On State occasions the King had a crown,
orb, and sceptre of gilt pasteboard, and the dignitaries of the realm
wore quaint head-dresses. The symbol of the fraternity was a silver box
with a hen sitting on eggs on the lid. At the time when I forgathered
with this pleasant company, there was a large proportion of talented
people in its ranks, so that it was entertaining enough, as far a it
went."
"I have no doubt it was," said Lothair, "but I can't comprehend how a
thing of the kind could be kept up for any length of time. The best of
jokes loses its point if it is kept going so long as it seems to have
been in this 'Lodge of the Clucking Hen,' if I may so style it. You
have both, Theodore and Ottmar, told us of clubs on a grand scale, with
their rules, regulations, and mystifications. Let me direct your
attention to what was probably the very _minutest_ club that ever, I
should think, existed on this earth. In a certain little town on the
Polish frontier, occupied, at the time, by Prussia, the only German
officials were an old captain--retired on account of bad health--who
was postmaster, and the exciseman. Every evening as the clock struck
five, these two repaired to the only inn which there was in the place,
to a little room where nobody else was admitted. Generally, the
exciseman arrived there before the captain, who would find him smoking
his pipe over his jug of beer. The captain, on coming in, would greet
him with, 'Fine evening! Any news?' sit down opposite to him at the
table; light his pipe--filled beforehand; take the paper out of his
pocket, and hand each sheet, as he finished it, across to the
exciseman, who would read it with equal care and avidity. They would go
on puffing their clouds of smoke into each other's eyes in profound
silence, till the clock struck eight, when the exciseman would get up,
knock the ashes out of his pipe, and with a 'Not much news, to speak
of,' be off to his bed. This they styled, in all seriousness, 'Our
Club.'
"Very good indeed," said Theodore, "and our Cyprian here would have
been a splendid candidate for membership in that club. He never would
have broken the sacred silence by any ill-timed remark. He seems to
have taken a vow of silence, like the monks of La Trappe, for up to
this moment not a syllable has passed his lips."
Cyprian, who had indeed been completely silent up to this point, heaved
a deep sigh, as if awaking from a dream; raised his eyes to the
ceiling, and said, with a quiet smile:
"I don't mind confessing that all this day I have been unable to banish
from my recollection a certain strange adventure which I met with
several years ago; and perhaps when the voices within one are loud, the
lips are not very apt to open for speech. But I have been attending to
all that has been said, and can give a proper account of it all. In the
first place, Theodore was quite right in saying that we had been
childish in fancying that we could begin again just where we left off
twelve years ago, and were sulking with each other because this was
not, and could not be, the case. I maintain that nothing could have so
established us as Philistines incarnate as to have gone ambling along
in our old track. And this reminds me of two savants--but I must tell
this story at full length. Imagine two men--whom I shall call Sebastian
and Ptolemy--imagine to yourselves these two studying Kant's philosophy
as hard as they could at College at K----, and daily carrying on long
discussions as to various points of it. Just at the moment when
Sebastian was going to deliver his most clenching blow, and Ptolemy
pulling himself together to answer it, they were interrupted; and Fate
so arranged matters that they never met again in K----, one going off
in one direction, the other, in another. Nearly twenty years afterwards
Ptolemy saw in the streets of B----, a figure walking, whom he at once
recognised as his friend Sebastian. He rushed after him, slapped him on
the shoulder, and when he looked round, Ptolemy said: 'Then you
maintain that----'
"In short, struck the (argumentative) blow which he had lifted his arm
to deliver twenty years before! Sebastian sprung the mines which he had
laid in K----. They argued for two hours, three hours, walking up and
down the streets, and in the heat of their discussion, agreed to submit
the question to the Professor for his decision, never recollecting that
poor old Emanuel had been many a year in his grave. They parted, and
never met again. Now to _me_ there is something almost terrific about
this story (which has this peculiarity, that it is strictly true). My
imagination _boggles_ at a Philistinism of a depth so ghastly! So we
are not going to be Philistines. We are not going to insist on spinning
on at the thread which we were spinning twelve years ago, nor be
annoyed with each other for having on different hats and coats. We will
be different to what we were then, and yet the same; so that is
settled. What Lothair, without much relevancy, said of clubs is, I dare
say true enough, and proves how prone poor Humanity is to dam up the
minutest remnants of its freedom, and build an artificial roof to
prevent it looking up to the clear blue sky. But what have we to do
with this? For my part, I adhere to Ottmar's proposal, that we meet
every week on a certain day."
"I shall oppose it persistently," said Lothair. "But to put an end to
this horrible argument and discussion, let Cyprian tell us the strange
adventure which is so much in his thoughts to-day."
"My idea," said Cyprian, "is rather that we should try to get into a
merrier mood; and it would greatly conduce to this if Theodore would be
so kind as to open yon old mysterious vase, which, judging by the
delicate aroma it gives out, might have pertained to the Brotherhood of
the Clucking Hen. Nothing on earth could have a more opposite effect
than my adventure, which you would consider inappropriate, altogether
uninteresting--nay, silly and absurd. It is gloomy in its character at
the same time, and the part which I play in it is the reverse of
distinguished: abundant reasons for saying nothing about it."
"Did I not tell you," cried Theodore, "that our Cyprian, our dear
Sunday-child, had been seeing all kinds of questionable spirits again,
which he won't allow our utterly carnal eyes to look upon? Out with
your adventure, Cyprian, and if you _do_ play rather an ungrateful part
in it, I promise that I will soon recollect, and dish you up adventures
of my own in which I play a more ungrateful part than you can possibly
do. I assure you I have a large stock of them."
"So be it then," said Cyprian; and after gazing reflectively before him
for a few seconds, he commenced as follows:--
"You know that, some years ago I spent a considerable time in B----, a
place in one of the pleasantest districts of the South of Germany. As
my habit is, I used to take long walks in the surrounding country by
myself, without any guide, though I should often have been the better
for one. On one of these occasions I got into a piece of thickly wooded
country and lost my way; the farther I went, the less could I discover
the smallest vestige of a human footstep. At last the wood grew less
thick, and I saw, not far from me, a man in a brown hermit's robe, with
a broad straw hat on his head, and a long, wild black beard, sitting on
a rock, by the side of a deep ravine gazing, with folded hands,
thoughtfully into the distance. This sight had something so strange,
unexpected, and out of the common about it that I felt a shiver of
eeriness and awe. One can scarcely help such a feeling when what one
has only heretofore seen in pictures, or read of in books, suddenly
appears before one's eyes in actual, every-day life. Here was an
anchorite of the early ages of Christianity, in the body, seated in one
of Salvator Rosa's wild mountain scenes. But it soon occurred to me
that probably a monk on his peregrinations was nothing uncommon in that
part of the country. So I walked up to him, and asked if he could tell
me the shortest way out of the wood to the high road leading to B----.
He looked at me from head to foot with a gloomy glance, and said, in a
hollow and solemn voice:
"'I know well that it is merely an idle curiosity to see me, and to
hear me speak which has led you to this desert. But you must perceive
that I have no time to talk with you now. My friend Ambrosius of
Camaldoli is returning to Alexandria. Travel with him.'
"With which he arose and walked down into the ravine.
"I felt as if I must be in a dream. Presently I heard the sound of
wheels close by, I made my way through the thickets, and found myself
in a forest track, where I saw a countryman going along in a cart. I
overtook him, and he shortly brought me to the high road leading to
B----. As we went along I told him my adventure, and asked if he knew
who the extraordinary man in the forest was?
"'Oh, sir,' he said, 'that was the worthy man who calls himself Priest
Serapion, and has been living in these woods for some years, in a
little hut which he built himself. People say he's not quite right in
his head, but he is a nice, good gentleman, never does any harm, and
edifies us of the village with pious discourses, giving us all the good
advice that he can.'
"I had come across the anchorite some six or eight miles from B----,
so I concluded that something must be known of him there, and this
proved to be the case. Dr. S---- told me all the story. This hermit
had once been one of the most brilliant intellects, one of the most
universally-accomplished men in M----; and belonging, as he did, to
a very distinguished family, he was naturally appointed to an important
diplomatic post as soon as he had completed his studies: the duties of
this office he discharged with great ability and energy. Moreover, he
had remarkable poetical gifts, and everything he wrote was inspired by
a most brilliant fancy, a mind and imagination which sounded the
profoundest depths of all subjects. His incomparable humour, and the
unusual charm of his character made him the most delightful of
companions imaginable. He had risen from step to step of his career,
and was on the point of being despatched on an important diplomatic
mission, when he disappeared, in the most incomprehensible fashion,
from M----. All search for him was fruitless, and conjecture and
enquiry were baffled by a combination of circumstances.
"After a time there appeared amongst the villages, in the depths of the
Tyrolese mountains, a man in a brown robe, who preached in these
hamlets, and then went away into the wildest parts of the forests,
where he lived the life of a hermit. It chanced one day that Count
P---- saw this man (who called himself Priest Serapion), and at once
recognised him as his unfortunate nephew, who had disappeared from
M----. He was taken into custody, became violent, and all the skill of
the best doctors in M---- could do nothing to alleviate his terrible
condition. He was taken to the lunatic asylum at B----, and there the
methodical system, based upon profound psychological knowledge, pursued
by the medical man then in charge of that institution, succeeded in
bringing about a condition of much less excitement, and greater
quietness in the form of his malady. Whether this doctor, true to his
theory, gave the patient an opportunity of escaping, or whether he
himself found the means of doing so, escape he did, and was lost sight
of for a considerable time.
"Serapion appeared, ultimately, in the country some eight miles from
B----, where I had seen him; and the doctor declared that if any true
compassion was to be shown him, he should not be again driven into a
condition of wild excitement; but that, if he was to be at peace, and,
after his fashion, happy, he should be left in these woods in perfect
freedom, to do just as he liked; in which case he, the said doctor,
would be responsible for the consequences. Accordingly, the police
authorities were content to leave him to a distant and imperceptible
supervision by the officials of the nearest village, and the result
bore out what the doctor had said. Serapion built himself a little hut,
pretty, and, under the circumstances, comfortable. He made chairs and
tables, wove mats of rushes to lie upon, and laid out a garden where he
grew flowers and vegetables. In all that did not touch the idea that he
was the hermit Serapion who fled into the Theban desert in the days of
the Emperor Decius, and suffered martyrdom in Alexandria, his mind was
completely unaffected. He could carry on the most intellectual
conversation, and often showed traces of the brilliant humour and
charming individuality of character for which he had been remarkable in
his former life. The aforesaid doctor declared him to be completely
incurable, and strongly deprecated all attempts to restore him to the
world and to his former pursuits and duties.
"You will readily understand that I could not drive this anchorite of
mine out of my thoughts, and that I experienced an irresistible longing
to see him again. But just picture to yourselves the excess of my
folly! I had no less an undertaking in my mind than that of attacking
Serapion's fixed idea at its very roots. I read Pinel, Reil, every
conceivable book on insanity which I could lay my hands on. I fondly
believed that it might be reserved for _me_, an amateur psychologist
and doctor, to cast some rays of light into Serapion's darkened
intelligence. And I did not omit, either, to make myself acquainted
with the stories of all the Serapions (there were no fewer than eight
of them) treated of in the histories of saints and martyrs.
"Thus equipped, I set out one fine morning in search of my anchorite.
"I found him working in his garden with hoe and spade, singing a
devotional song. Wild pigeons, for which he had strewed an abundant
supply of food, were fluttering and cooing round him, and a young deer
was peeping through the leaves on the trellis. He was evidently living
in the closest intimacy with the woodland creatures. Not the faintest
trace of insanity was visible in his face; it bore a quiet expression
of remarkable serenity and happiness; and all this confirmed what Dr.
S---- in B---- had told me. When he heard of my projected visit to the
anchorite, he advised me to go some fine, bright pleasant morning,
because, he said, his mind would be less troubled then and he would be
more inclined to talk to a stranger, whereas at evening he would shun
all intercourse with mankind.
"As soon as he saw me he laid down his spade, and came towards me in a
kind and friendly manner. I said that, being weary with a longish
journey, I should be glad if he would allow me to rest with him for a
little while.
"'You are heartily welcome,' he said. 'The little which I can offer you
in the shape of refreshment is at your service.'
"And he took me to a seat of moss in front of his hut, brought out a
little table, set on bread, magnificent grapes, and a can of wine, and
hospitably begged me to eat and drink. He sat down opposite to me, and
ate bread with much appetite, washing it down with draughts of water.
"In good sooth I did not see how I was to lead the conversation to my
subject--how I was to bring my psychological science to bear upon this
peaceful, happy man. At last I pulled myself together and began:
"'You style yourself Serapion, reverend sir?'
"'Yes, certainly,' he answered. 'The Church has given me that name.'
"'Ancient ecclesiastical history,' I continued, 'mentions several
celebrated holy men of that name. An abbot Serapion, known for his good
works the--learned Bishop Serapion alluded to by Hieronimus in his book
"_De Viris Illustribus_." There was also a monk Serapion, who (as
Heraclides relates in his "Paradise") on one occasion, coming from the
Theban desert to Rome, ordered a virgin, who had joined him--saying she
had renounced the world and its pleasures--to prove this by walking
with him naked in the streets of Rome, and repulsed her when she
hesitated, saying, "You still live the life of Nature, and are careful
for the opinions of mankind. Think not that you are anything great or
have overcome the world." If I am not mistaken, reverend sir, this was
the "filthy monk" (Heraclid himself so styles him) who suffered a
terrible martyrdom under the Emperor Decius--his limbs being torn
asunder at the joints, and his body thrown down from a lofty rock.'
"'That was so,' said Serapion, turning pale, and his eyes glowing with
a sombre fire. 'But Serapion the martyr, had no connection with that
monk, who, in the fury of his asceticism, did battle against human
nature. I am Serapion the martyr, to whom you allude.'
"'What?' I cried, with feigned surprise. 'You believe that you are that
Serapion who suffered such a hideous martyrdom so many hundred years
ago?'
"That,' said Serapion with much calmness, 'may appear incredible to
you; and I admit that it must sound very wonderful to many who cannot
see further than the points of their own noses. However, it is as I
tell you. God's omnipotence permitted me to survive my martyrdom, and
to recover from its effects, because it was ordained, in His mysterious
providence, that I had still to pass a certain period of my existence,
to His praise and glory, here in the Theban desert. There is nothing
now to remind me of the tortures which I suffered except sometimes a
severe headache, and occasional violent cramps and twitchings in my
limbs.'
"Now,' thought I, 'is the time to commence my cure.'
"I made a wide circumbendibus, and talked in an erudite style
concerning the malady of 'Fixed Idea,' which attacks people, marring,
like one single discord, the otherwise harmonious organisms. I spoke of
the scientific man who could not be induced to rise from his chair for
fear he would break the windows across the street with his nose. I
mentioned the Abbot Molanus, who conversed most rationally upon every
subject, but would not leave his room because he thought he was a
barleycorn, and the hens would swallow him. I came to the fact that to
confound oneself with some historical character was a frequent form of
Fixed Idea. 'Nothing more absurd and preposterous,' I said, 'could
possibly be imagined than that a little bit of woodland country eight
miles from B----, daily frequented by country folk, sportsmen, and
people walking for exercise was the Theban desert, and he himself that
ascetic who suffered martyrdom many centuries ago.'
"Serapion listened in silence. He seemed to feel what I said, and to be
struggling with himself in deep reflection. So that I thought it was
time to strike my decisive blow. I stood up, took him by both hands,
and cried, loudly and emphatically:
"'Count P----, awake from the pernicious dream which is enthralling
you; throw off that abominable dress, and come back to your family,
which mourns your loss, and to the world where you have such important
duties to discharge.'
"Serapion gazed at me with a sombre, penetrating gaze. Then a sarcastic
smile played about his lips and cheeks, and he said, slowly and
solemnly:
"'You have spoken, sir, long, and, as _you_ consider, wisely and well.
Allow _me_, in turn, to say a few words in reply. Saint Anthony, and
all the men of the Church who have withdrawn from the world into
solitude, were often visited by vexing spirits, who, envying the inward
peace and contentment of their souls, carried on with them lengthy
contests, until they had to lie down conquered in the dust. And such is
_my_ fortune also. Every now and then there appear to me emissaries,
sent by Satan, who try to persuade me that I am Count P---- of M----,
and that I ought to betake myself to the life of Courts, and all sorts
of unholiness. Were it not for the efficacy of prayer, I should take
these people by the shoulders, turn them out of my little garden, and
carefully barricade it against them. But I need not do so in your case;
for you are, most unmistakably, the very feeblest of all the
adversaries who have ever come to me, and I can vanquish _you_ with
your own weapons--those of ratiocination. It is insanity that is in
question between us. But if one of us two is suffering from that sad
malady, it is evident that _you_ are so in a much greater degree than
I. You maintain that it is a case of Fixed Idea that I believe myself
to be Serapion the martyr--and I am quite aware that many persons hold
the same opinion, or pretend that they do. Now, if I am really insane,
none but a lunatic can think that he could _argue_ me out of the Fixed
Idea which insanity has engendered in me. Were such a proceeding
possible, there would soon be no madmen on the face of the earth, for
men would be able to rule, and command, their mental power, which is
not their own, but merely lent to them for a time by that Higher Power
which disposes of them. But if I am _not_ mad, and if I am really
Serapion the martyr, it is insane to set about arguing me out of that,
and leading me to adopt the Fixed Idea that I am Count P---- of M----.
You say that Serapion the martyr, lived several centuries ago, and
that, consequently, I cannot be that martyr, presumably for the reason
that human beings cannot remain so long on this earth. Well, as regards
this, the notion of time is just as _relative_ a notion as that of
number; and I may say to you that, according to the notion of time
which I have in _me_, it is scarcely three _hours_ (or whatever
appellation you may choose to give to the divisions of time), since I
was put to martyrdom by the Emperor Decius. But, leaving this on one
side, can you assert, in opposition to me, that a life of such length
as I say I have lived, is unexampled and contrary to human nature? Have
you cognizance of the precise length of the life of every human being
who has existed in all this wide world, that you can employ the
expression 'unexampled' in this pert and decisive manner? Do you
compare God's omnipotence to the wretched art of the clockmaker, who
can't save his lifeless machinery from destruction? You say this place
where we are is not the Theban desert, but a little woodland district
eight miles from B----, daily frequented by country folk, sportsmen and
others. _Prove_ that to me.'
"Here, I thought I had my man.
"'Come with me,' said I, 'and in a couple of hours we shall be in
B----, and what I assert will be proved.'
"'Poor, blinded fool,' said Serapion. 'What a wide distance lies
between us and B----! But put the case that I went with you to some
town which you call B----; would you be able to convince me that we had
been travelling for two hours only, and the place we had arrived at was
really B----? If I were to assert that you were insane, and suppose the
Theban desert is a little bit of wooded country, and far-away
Alexandria the town of B---- in the south of Germany, what would you
say in reply? Our old discussion would go on for ever. Then there is
another point which you ought seriously to consider. You must, I should
suppose, perceive that I, who am talking with you, am leading the
peaceful and happy life of a man reconciled with God. It is only after
having passed through martyrdom that such a life dawns upon the soul.
And if it has pleased the Almighty to cast a veil over what happened
before my martyrdom, is it not a terrible, and diabolical action to try
to tear that veil away?'
"With all my wisdom, I stood, confounded and silenced in the presence
of this insane man! With the very rationality of his irrationality he
had beaten me completely out of the field, and I saw the folly of my
undertaking in all its fulness. Still more than that, I felt the
reproach contained in what he had last said as deeply as I was
astounded at the dim remembrance of his previous life which shone
through it like some lofty, invulnerable, higher spirit.
"Serapion seemed to be reading my thoughts, and, looking me full in the
face with an expression of the greatest kindliness, he said:
"'I never took you for an evil-disposed adversary, and I see I was not
mistaken. You may have been instigated by somebody--perhaps by the Evil
One himself--to come here to vex and try me, but I am sure it was not a
spontaneous act of yours. And perhaps the fact that you found me other
than you expected, may have strengthened you in your expression of the
doubts which you have suggested. Although I in no sense deviate from
the devoutness beseeming him who has given up his life to God and the
Church, that cynicism of asceticism into which many of my brethren have
fallen--thereby giving proof of the weakness, nay, utter destruction of
their mental vigour, instead of its boasted strength--is utterly
foreign to me! You expected to find the Monk Serapion pale and haggard,
wasted with fast and vigil, all the horror of visions, terrible as
those which drove even St. Anthony to despair, in his sombre face, with
quivering knees scarce able to support him, in a filthy robe, stained
with his blood. You find a placid, cheerful man. But I, too, have
passed through those tortures, and have overcome them and survived. And
when I awoke with shattered limbs and fractured skull, the spirit
dawned, and shone bright within me, restoring my mind and my body to
health. May it please Heaven speedily to grant to you also, my brother,
even here on earth, a peace and happiness such as those which daily
refresh and strengthen _me_. Have no dread of the terror of the deepest
solitude. It is only there that a life like this can dawn upon the
pious soul.'
"Serapion, who had spoken with genuine priestly unction, raised, in
silence, his eyes to Heaven with an expression of blissful gratitude.
How could I feel otherwise than awe-struck! A madman, congratulating
himself on his condition, looking upon it as a priceless gift from
Heaven, and, from the depths of his heart, wishing me a similar fate!
"I was on the point of leaving him, but he began in an altered tone,
saying:
"'You would, probably, scarcely suppose that this wild inhospitable
desert is often almost too full of the noise and bustle of life to be
suitable for my silent meditations. Every day I receive visits from the
most remarkable people of the most diverse kinds. Ariosto was here
yesterday, and Dante and Petrarch afterwards. And this evening I expect
Evagrus, the celebrated father, with whom I shall discuss the most
recent ecclesiastical affairs, as I did poetry yesterday. I often go up
to the top of that hill there, whence the towers of Alexandria are to
be seen distinctly in clear weather, and the most wonderful and
interesting events happen before my eyes. Many people have thought
_that_ incredible, too, and considered that I only _fancy_ I see before
me, in actual life, what is merely born in my mind and imagination. Now
_I_ say _that_ is the most incomprehensible piece of folly that can
exist. What is it, except the mind, which takes cognizance of what
happens around us in time and space? What is it that hears, and feels,
and sees? Is it the lifeless mechanism which we call eyes, ears, hands,
etc., and not the mind? Does the mind give form and shape to that
peculiar world of its own which has space and time for its conditions
of existence, and _then_ hand over the functions of seeing, hearing,
etc., to some _other_ principle inherent in us? How illogical!
Therefore, if it is the mind only which takes cognizance of events
around us, it follows that that which it has taken cognizance of _has_
actually occurred. Last evening only, Ariosto was speaking of the
images of his fancy, and saying he had created in his brain forms and
events which had never existed in time and space. I at once denied the
possibility of this, and he was obliged to allow that it was only from
lack of a higher knowledge that a poet would box up within the narrow
limits of his brain that which, by virtue of his peculiar seer gift, he
was enabled to see in full life before him. But the complete
acquirement of this higher knowledge only comes after martyrdom, and is
strengthened by the life in profound solitude. You don't appear to
agree with me; probably you don't understand me here. Indeed how should
a child of this world, however well disposed, understand an anchorite
consecrated in all his works and ways to God? Let me tell you what
happened before my eyes, as I was standing this morning at sunrise at
the top of that hill.'
"He then related a regular romance, with a plot and incidents such as
only the most imaginative poet could have constructed. The characters
and events stood out with such a vivid, plastic relief, that it was
impossible--carried away as one was by the magic spell of them--to help
believing, as if in a species of dream, that Serapion had actually
witnessed them from the hilltop. This romance was succeeded by another,
and that by another, by which time the sun stood high above us in the
noon-tide sky. Serapion then rose from his seat, and looking into the
distance, said: 'Yonder comes my brother Hilarion, who, in his over
strictness, always blames me for being too much given to the society of
strangers.'
"I understood the hint, and took my leave, asking if I should be
allowed to pay him another visit. Serapion answered with a gentle
smile, 'My friend, I thought you would be eager to get away from this
wilderness, so little adapted to your mode of life. But if it is your
pleasure to take up your abode for a time in my neighbourhood, you will
always be welcome to my cottage and my little garden. Perhaps it may be
granted to me to convert him who came to me as an adversary. Farewell,
my friend.'
"I am wholly unable to characterize the impression which my visit to
him had made upon me. Whilst his condition, his methodical madness in
which he found the joy of his life, produced the weirdest effect upon
me, his extraordinary poetical genius filled me with amazement, and his
kindly, peaceful happiness, instinct with the quietest resignation of
the purest mind, touched me unspeakably. I thought of Ophelia's
sorrowful words:
"O what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!
The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's, eye, tongue, sword:
The expectancy and rose of this fair state,
The glass of fashion, and the mould of form,
The observ'd of all observers! quite, quite down!
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh;
That unmatched form and feature of blown youth,
Blasted with ecstasy."
Yet I could not make plaint against the Omnipotence, which probably
had, in this mysterious fashion, steered his bark away from reefs,
which might have wrecked it, into this secure haven.
"The oftener I went to see him, the more attached to him I became. I
always found him happy, and disposed to converse, and I took great care
never again to essay my rôle of the psychological doctor. It was
wonderful with what acuteness and penetration he spoke of life in all
its aspects, and most remarkable of all, how he deduced historical
events from causes wholly remote from all ordinary theories on the
subject. When sometimes--notwithstanding the striking acuteness of
those divinations of his--I took it upon me to object that no work on
history made any mention of the circumstances which he alluded to, he
would answer, with his quiet smile, that probably no historian in the
world knew as much about them as he did, seeing that he had them from
the very lips of the people concerned, when they came to see him.
"I was obliged to leave B---- and it was three years before I could go
back there. It was late in Autumn, about the middle of November--the
14th, if I do not mistake--when I set out to pay my anchorite a visit.
Whilst I was still at a distance, I heard the sound of the little bell
which hung above his hut, and was filled with gloomy forebodings,
without apparent cause. At last I reached the cottage and went in.
"Serapion was lying on his mat, with his hands folded on his breast. I
thought he was sleeping, and went softly up to him. Then I saw that he
was dead."
"And two lions came and helped you to bury him," interrupted Ottmar.
"What do you say?" cried Cyprian astonished.
"Yes," Ottmar went on. "While you were in the forest, before you
reached Serapion's hut, you met strange monsters of all kinds, and
talked with them; a deer brought you St. Athanasius's mantle, and told
you to wrap it about Serapion's body. At any rate, your last visit to
your mad anchorite reminds me a good deal of that wonderful one which
St. Anthony paid to Paul the Hermit, of which the holy man relates so
much fantastic stuff that it's not difficult to see what a big bee was
buzzing in his bonnet. I know something of the Legends of the Saints,
you see, as well as you. Now I understand why it was that your head was
so full of monks and monasteries, saints and hermits a few years ago. I
saw that it was so by the letters you sent me, which were so strange
and mystic in their tone that they set me supposing all sorts of odd
things. And if I am not mistaken, it was about that time that you wrote
a curious book, treating of the profounder mysteries of the Catholic
Church, but containing madness and diablerie sufficient to give you a
very bad name amongst quiet, respectable folks. At that time you were
possessed with Serapionism to a very dangerous degree."
"Quite true," said Cyprian, "and although that fanciful book does bear
the devil on its forehead, by way of danger-signal--so that those who
prefer to give it a wide berth may do so if they choose--I almost wish
now I had never brought it into the world. It is quite true that it was
suggested to me by my intercourse with the anchorite. I ought to have
kept out of his way, perhaps; but you all of you know what a
fascination insane people have always had for me. I have always thought
that in connection with those abnormal conditions nature vouchsafes us
glimpses into her most mysterious depths. In fact, by the very
gruesomeness which I have felt in the society of mad people, I have
found myself led upon the track of suggestions and ideas which have
inspired my mind and fancy to flights of unusual loftiness. Perhaps
people who are utterly sane may look upon flights such as these as mere
paroxysms of dangerous ill-health. But that is nothing when one _knows_
that one is sound and well."
"There is no doubt, dear Cyprian, that you are as sound and as well as
possible," said Theodore, "and in fact all this is a proof of the
strength and vigour of your constitution--which I almost could envy you
for. You speak of glimpses into Nature's mysterious depths; but people
who are not quite sure that they are exempt from anything like
giddiness ought to keep away from glimpses of the kind. Of course this
could never have applied to your Serapion, as you have described him to
us, inasmuch as to associate with him must have been better than
companionship with the most brilliant and splendid poet. But you will
admit that, chiefly because so many years have passed since you saw
him, you have pictured him to tie in all the brilliant colours in which
he glows in your memory. Now _I_ consider that, in the society of a
man, insane in the particular way in which your Serapion was, I should
never have been able to divest myself of an immense uneasiness, nay, I
may say terror! Even when you were telling us how he considered his
condition to be the happiest conceivable, and wished that it could be
yours, I felt my hair beginning to stand on end! What if the notion
that this condition _was_ a happy one should take root in one's mind,
and eventuate in real madness! Terrible thought! I could never have
been much with Serapion, just for that reason. Then, besides the risk
to the mind, there was the danger to the body, too. Pinel mentions
plenty of cases of people suffering from Fixed Idea who have suddenly
become fearfully violent, and murdered everybody whom they came near,
like furious wild beasts."
"Theodore is right," said Ottmar. "Cyprian, I blame you for your
foolish _penchant_ for folly, your insane interest in insanity. There
is a morbidness about it which may give you some trouble one of these
days. For my part I shun mad people like the plague; and even people of
over-excitable temperaments, which lead them into marked eccentricities
of any kind, are repulsive and repugnant to me."
"You go too far," said Theodore, "in your distaste for every expression
of feeling which takes any rather peculiar or unusual form. The
incongruity which _excitable_ people, as they are called, perceive
between their inner selves and the world without them makes them
grimace, in a manner which quiet folks, over whom pain has as little
power as pleasure, can't understand, and are only annoyed with. Yet you
yourself, Ottmar, with all your sensitiveness to this kind of behaviour
in others, often lay yourself open to be accused of very distinct
eccentricity.
"I happen to remember a man whose eccentricities were so extreme that
half his fellow-citizens considered him a lunatic, although no one
really less deserved to be so characterized. The way in which I made
his acquaintance was as quaintly comic as the circumstances in, which I
met with him at a later period were tragic and terrible. I should like
to tell you all this story, as a sort of transition from pure insanity,
_viâ_ eccentricity, to the realms of every-day rationality. Only I am
afraid that, as I should have to say a good deal about music, I should
be open to the objection which I made to Cyprian's story--that of
giving my own particular hobby undue prominence, and introducing too
much of my own personality into my tale. In the meantime, I see that
Lothair is casting longing looks at that vase which Cyprian calls
'mysterious,' so we may as well break the spell which binds it."
"Now," said Lothair, when glasses of a fluid which would have merited
the encomiums of the fraternity of the "Clucking Hen" had been passed
round, "tell us about your eccentric friend--be entertaining, be
affecting, be merry, or sad; but get us away from the atmosphere of
that abominable mad anchorite, and out of the bedlam where Cyprian has
been keeping us immured."
[THE STORY OF KRESPEL.]
"The man," said Theodore, "whom I am going to tell you about was
Krespel, a Member of Council in the town of H----. This Krespel was the
most extraordinary character that I have ever, in my lifetime, come
across. When I first arrived in H---- the whole town was talking of
him, because one of his _most_ extraordinary pranks chanced to be in
its fullest swing. He was a very clever lawyer and _diplomate_, and a
certain German prince---not a person of _great_ importance--had
employed him to draw up a memorial, concerning claims of his on the
Imperial Chancery, which had been eminently successful. As Krespel had
often said he never could meet with a house quite to his mind, this
prince, as recompense for his services, undertook to pay for the
building of a house, to be planned by Krespel according to the dictates
of his fancy. He also offered to buy a site for it; but Krespel
determined to build it in a delightful piece of garden ground of his
own, just outside the town-gate. So he got together all the necessary
building materials, and had them laid down in this piece of ground.
After which, he was to be seen all day long, in his usual extraordinary
costume--which he always made with his own hands, on peculiar
principles of his own--slaking the lime, sifting the gravel, arranging
the stones in heaps, etc., etc. He had not gone to any architect for a
plan. But one fine day he walked in upon the principal builder, and
told him to come next morning, to his garden, with the necessary
workmen--stonemasons, hodmen, and so forth--and build him a house. The
builder, of course, asked to see the plan, and was not a little
astonished when Krespel said there was no plan and no occasion for one;
every thing would go on all right without one.
"The builder arrived next morning with his men, and found a great
rectangular trench, carefully dug in the ground; and Krespel said 'this
is the foundation; so set to work, and go on building the walls till I
tell you to stop.'
"'But what about the doors and windows,' said the builder; 'are there
to be no partition walls?'
"'Just you do as I tell you, my good man,' said Krespel, as calmly as
possible; 'everything will come quite right in its own good time.'
"Nothing but the prospect of liberal payment induced the man to have
anything to do with a job so preposterous--but never was there a piece
of work carried through so merrily; for it was amid the never-ceasing
jokes and laughter of the workmen--who never left the ground, where
abundance of victuals and drink were always at hand--that the four
walls rose with incredible celerity, till one day Krespel cried,
'Stop!'
"Mallets and chisels paused. The men came down from their scaffolds,
and formed a circle about Krespel, each grinning countenance seeming to
say--'What's going to happen now?'
"'Out of the way! 'cried Krespel, who hastened to one end of the
garden, and then paced slowly towards his rectangle of stone walls. On
reaching the side of it which was nearest--the one, that is, towards
which he had been marching--he shook his head dissatisfied, went to the
other end of the garden, then paced up to the wall as before, shaking
his head, dissatisfied, once more. This process he repeated two or
three times; but at last, going straight up to the wall till he touched
it with the point of his nose, he cried out, loud--
"Come here, you fellows, come here! Knock me in the door! Knock me in a
door _here_!' He gave the size it was to be, accurately in feet and
inches; and what he told them to do they did. When the door was knocked
out, he walked into the house, and smiled pleasantly at the builder's
remark that the walls were just the proper height for a nice
two-storied house. He walked meditatively up and down inside, the masons
following him with their tools, and whenever he cried 'here a window
six feet by four; a little one yonder three feet by two,' out flew the
stones as directed.
"It was during these operations that I arrived in H----, and it was
entertaining in the extreme to see some hundreds of people collected
outside the garden, all hurrahing whenever the stones flew out, and a
window appeared where none had been expected. The house was all
finished in the same fashion, everything being done according to
Krespel's directions as given on the spot. The quaintness of the
proceeding, the feeling--not to be resisted--that it was all going to
turn out so marvellously better than was to have been expected; but,
particularly, Krespel's liberality, which, by the way, cost him
nothing, kept everybody in the best of humour. So the difficulties
attending this remarkable style of house-building were got over, and in
a very brief time there stood a fully-finished house, which had the
maddest appearance, certainly, from the outside, no two windows being
alike, and so forth, but was a marvel of comfort and convenience
within. Everybody said so who entered it, and I was of the same
opinion, when Krespel admitted me to it after I made his acquaintance.
"It was some time, however, ere I did so. He had been so engrossed by
his building operations that he had never gone, as he did at other
times, to lunch at Professor M----'s on Thursdays, saying he should not
cross his threshold till after his house-warming. His friends were
expecting a grand entertainment on that occasion. However, he invited
nobody but the workmen who built the house. Them he entertained with
the most _recherché_ dishes. Journeymen masons feasted on venison
pasties, carpenters' apprentices and hungry hodmen, for once in their
lives stayed their appetites with roast pheasant and _paté de foie
gras_. In the evening their wives and daughters came, and there was a
fine ball. Krespel just waltzed a little with the foremen's wives,
and then sat down with the town-band, took a fiddle, and led the
dance-music till daylight.
"On the Thursday after this house-warming, which had established
Krespel in the position of a popular character--'a friend to the
working classes'--I at last met him at Professor M----'s, to my no
small gratification. The most extravagant imagination could not invent
anything more extraordinary than Krespel's style of behaviour. His
movements were awkward, abrupt, constrained, so that you expected him
to bump against the furniture and knock things down, or do some
mischief or other every moment. But he never did; and you soon noticed
that the lady of the house never changed colour ever so little,
although he went floundering heavily and uncertainly about, close to
tables covered with valuable china, or man[oe]uvring in dangerous
proximity to a great mirror reaching from floor to ceiling; even when
he took up a valuable china jar, painted with flowers, and whirled it
about near the window to admire the play of the light on its colours.
In fact, whilst we were waiting for luncheon, he inspected and
scrutinised everything in the room with the utmost minuteness, even
getting up upon a cushioned arm-chair to take a picture down from the
wall and hang it up again. All this time he talked a great deal; often
(and this was more observable while we were at luncheon) darting
rapidly from one subject to another, and at other times--unable to get
away from some particular idea--he would keep beginning at it again and
again, and get into labyrinths of confusion over it, till something
else came into his head. Sometimes the tone of his voice was harsh and
screaming, at other times it would be soft, sustained, and singing; but
it was always completely inappropriate to what he happened to be
talking about. For instance, we were discussing music, and some one was
praising a new composer: Krespel smiled, and said in his gentle
_cantabile_ tone, 'I wish to heaven the devil would hurl the wretched
music-perverter ten thousand millions of fathoms deep into the abysses
of hell!' and then he screamed out violently and wildly, 'She's an
angel of heaven, all compounded of the purest, divinest music:' and the
tears came to his eyes. It was some time ere we remembered that, about
an hour before, we had been talking of a particular _prima donna_.
There was a hare at table, and I noticed that he carefully polished the
bones on his plate, and made particular enquiries for the feet, which
were brought to him, with many smiles, by the professor's little
daughter of fifteen. All the time of luncheon the children had been
fixing their eyes upon him as on a favourite, and now they came up to
him, though they kept a respectful distance of two or three paces.'
'What's going to happen,' thought I. The dessert came, and Krespel took
a small box from his pocket, out of which he brought a miniature
turning-lathe, made of steel, which he screwed on to the table, and
proceeded to turn, from the bones, with wonderful skill and rapidity,
all sorts of charming little boxes, balls, etc., which the children
took possession of with cries of delight.
"As we rose from table, the professor's niece said--
"'And how is our dear Antonia, Mr. Krespel?'
"'_Our_--OUR dear Antonia!' he answered, in his sustained singing tone
most unpleasant to hear. At first he made the sort of face which a
person makes who bites into a bitter orange, and wants to look as if
it were a sweet one; but soon this face changed to a perfectly
terrible-looking mask, out of which grinned a bitter, fierce--nay, as
it seemed to me, altogether _diabolical_, sneer of angry scorn.
"The professor hastened up to him. In the look of angry reproach which
he cast at his niece I read that she had touched some string which
jarred most discordantly within Krespel.
"'How get on the violins?' said the professor, taking Krespel by both
hands.
"The cloud cleared away from his face, and he answered in his harsh
rugged tone, 'Splendidly, Professor. You remember my telling you about
a magnificent _Amati_, which I got hold of by a lucky accident a short
time ago? I cut it open this very morning, and expect that Antonia has
finished taking it to pieces by this time.'
"'Antonia is a dear, good child,' said the Professor.
"'Ay! that she is--that she is!' screamed Krespel, and seizing his hat
and stick, was off out of the house like a flash of lightning.
"As soon as he was gone, I eagerly begged the Professor to tell me all
about those violins, and more especially about Antonia.
"'Ah,' said the Professor, 'Krespel is an extraordinary man; he studies
fiddle-making in a peculiar fashion of his own.'
"'Fiddle-making?' cried I in amazement.
"'Yes,' said the Professor; 'connoisseurs consider that Krespel's
violin-making is unapproachable at the present day. Formerly, when he
turned out any special _chef d'[oe]uvre_, he would allow other people
to play upon it; but now he lets no one touch them but himself. When he
has finished a fiddle, he plays upon it for an hour or two (he plays
magnificently, with a power and an amount of feeling and expression
which the greatest professional violinists rarely equal, let alone
surpass), then he hangs it up on the wall beside the others, and never
touches it again, nor lets anyone else lay hands upon it.'
"'And Antonia?' I eagerly asked.
"'Well, _that_,' said the Professor, 'is an affair which would make me
have a very shady opinion of Krespel, if I didn't know what a
thoroughly good fellow he is; so that I feel convinced there is some
mystery about it which we don't at present fathom. When he first came
here some years ago, he lived like a hermit, with an old housekeeper,
in a gloomy house in ----Street. His eccentricities soon attracted
people's attention, and, when he saw this, he soon sought and made
acquaintances. Just as was the case in _my_ house, people got so
accustomed to him that they couldn't get on without him. In spite of
his rough exterior even the children got fond of him, though they were
never troublesome to him, but always looked upon him with a certain
amount of awe which prevented over-familiarity. You have seen how he
attracts children by all sorts of ingenious tricks. Everybody looked
upon him as a regular old bachelor and woman-hater, and he gave no sign
to the contrary; but after he had been here some time, he went off on
some excursion or other, no one knew where, and it was some months
before he came back. The second evening after his return, his windows
were lighted up in an unusual way--and that was enough to attract the
neighbours' attention. Presently, a most extraordinarily beautiful
female voice was heard singing to a pianoforte accompaniment. Soon the
tones of a violin were heard joining in, responding to the voice in
brilliant, fiery emulation. It was easy to distinguish that it was
Krespel who was playing. I joined the little crowd assembled outside
the house myself, to listen to the wonderful concert, and I can assure
you that the greatest prima-donnas I have ever heard were poor
every-day performers compared to the lady we heard that night. I _never_
heard any one sing with such marvellously touching expression, and
such absolute finish of execution; never had had any idea of such
long-sustained notes, such nightingale roulades, such crescendoes and
diminuendoes, such swellings to an organ-like _forte_, such dyings down
to the most imperceptible whisper. There was not a soul in all the
crowd able to resist the magic spell of this wonderful singing; and
when she stopped, you heard nothing but sighs breaking the silence. It
was probably about midnight, when, all at once we heard Krespel talking
loudly and excitedly; another male voice, to judge by the tone of it,
bitterly reproaching him about something, and a woman intervening as
best she could tearfully, in broken phrases. Krespel screamed louder
and louder, till at last he broke into that horrible _singing_ tone
which you know. A loud shriek from the lady interrupted him: then all
was as still as death; and suddenly steps came rapidly down the stairs,
and a young man came out, sobbing, and, jumping into a carriage which
was standing near, drove rapidly away.
"'The next day Krespel appeared quite in his ordinary condition, as if
nothing had happened, and no one had the courage to allude to the
events of the previous night; but the housekeeper said Krespel had
brought home a most beautiful lady, quite young; that he called her
Antonia, and that it was she who sung so splendidly; and that a young
gentleman had also come, who seemed to be deeply attached to Antonia,
and, as she supposed, was engaged to her; but that he had had to go
away, because Krespel had insisted on it. What Antonia's precise
position with respect to Krespel is, remains a mystery; at all events
he treats her in the most tyrannical style. He watches her as a cat
does a mouse, or as Dr. Bartolo, in _Il Barbiere_, does his niece. She
scarcely dares to look out of the window. On the rare occasions when he
can be prevailed upon to take her into society, he watches her with
Argus-eyes, and won't suffer a note of music to be heard, far less that
_she_ shall sing; neither will he now allow her to sing in his own
house; so that, since that celebrated night, Antonia's singing has
become, for the people of the town, a sort of romantic legend, as of
some splendid miracle, and even those who never heard her often say,
when some celebrated prima-donna comes to sing at a concert, 'Good
gracious! what a wretched caterwauling all this is, nobody can _sing_
but Antonia!'
"You know how anything of this sort always fascinates _me_, and you can
imagine how essential it became to me that I should make Antonia's
acquaintance. I had heard those sayings of the public about Antonia's
singing often, but I had had no idea that this glorious creature was
there, on the spot, held in thraldom by this crack-brained Krespel, as
by some tyrant enchanter. Naturally, that night, in my dreams I heard
Antonia singing in the most magnificent style; and as she was imploring
me, in the most moving manner, to set her free, in a gloriously lovely
_adagio_--absurdly enough, it seemed as if I had composed it myself--I
at once made up my mind that, by some means or other, I would make my
way into Krespel's house, and, like another Astolfo, set this Queen of
Song free from her shameful bonds.
"Things came about, however, quite differently to what I had
anticipated; for after I had once or twice met Krespel and had a talk
with him about fiddle-making, he asked me to go and see him. I went,
and he showed me his violin treasures: there ere some thirty of them
hanging in a cabinet; and there was one, remarkable above the rest,
with all the marks of the highest antiquity (a carved lion's head at
the end of the tail-piece, etc.), which was hung higher than the
others, with a wreath of flowers on it, and seemed to reign over the
rest as queen.
"'This violin,' said Krespel, when I questioned him about it, 'is a
very remarkable and unparalleled work, by some ancient master, most
probably about the time of Tartini. I am quite convinced there is
something most peculiar about its interior construction, and that, if I
were to take it to pieces, I should discover a certain secret which 1
have long been in search of. But--you may laugh at me if you like--this
lifeless thing, which I myself inspire with life and language, often
speaks out of itself, to me in an extraordinary manner; and when I
first played upon it, I felt as if I were merely the magnetiser--the
mesmerist--who acts upon his _subject_ in such sort that she relates in
words what she is seeing with her inward vision. No doubt you think me
an ass to have any faith in nonsense of this sort; still, it is the
fact that I have never been able to prevail upon myself to take that
lifeless thing there to pieces. I am glad I never did, for since
Antonia has been here, I now and then play to her on that fiddle; she
is fond of hearing it--very fond.'
"He exhibited so much emotion as he said this, that I was emboldened to
say 'Ah! dear Mr. Krespel, won't you be so kind as to let me hear you
play on it?' But he made one of his bitter-sweet faces, and answered in
his _cantabile sostenuto_:
"'_Nay_, my dear master student, that would ruin everything;' and I had
to go and admire a number of curiosities, principally childish trash,
till at length he dived into a chest and brought out a folded paper,
which he put into my hand with much solemnity, saying: '_There!_ you
are very fond of music: accept _this_ as a present from me, and always
prize it beyond everything. It is a souvenir of _great_ value.' With
which he took me by the shoulders and gently shoved me out of the door,
with an embrace on the threshold--in short, he symbolically kicked me
out of his house.
"When I opened the paper which he had given me, I found a small piece
of the first string of a violin, about the eighth of an inch in length,
and on the paper was written--
"'Portion of the first string which was on Stamitz's violin when he
played his last Concerto.'
"The calmly insulting style in which I had been shown to the door the
moment I had said a word about Antonia, seemed to indicate that I
should probably never be allowed to see her; however, the second time I
went to Krespel's I found Antonia in his room, helping him to put a
fiddle together. Her exterior did not strike me much at first, but
after a short time one could not resist the charm of her lovely blue
eyes, rosy lips, and exquisitely expressive, tender face. She was very
pale; but when anyone said anything interesting, a bright colour and a
very sweet smile appeared in her face, but the colour quickly died down
to a pale-rose tint. She and I talked quite unconstrainedly and
pleasantly together, and I saw none of those Argus-glances which the
Professor had spoken about. Krespel went on quite in his ordinary,
beaten track, and seemed rather to approve of my being friendly with
Antonia than otherwise. Thus it came about that I went pretty often
there, and our little circle of three got so accustomed to each other's
society that we much enjoyed ourselves in our quiet way. Krespel was
always entertaining with his strange eccentricities; but it was really
Antonia who drew me to the house, and made me put up with a great deal
which, impatient as I was in those days, I should never have endured
but for her. In Krespel's quirks and cranks there was often a good deal
which was tedious, and not in the best of taste. What most annoyed me
was that, whenever I led the conversation to music--particularly to
vocal music--he would burst in, in that horrible singing voice of his,
and smiling like a demon, with something wholly irrelevant and
generally disgustingly unimportant at the same time. From Antonia's
looks of annoyance on those occasions, it was clear that he did this to
prevent me from asking her to sing. However, I wasn't going to give in:
the more he objected, the more determined was I to carry my point. I
felt that I must hear her, or die of my dreams of it.
"There came an evening when Krespel was in particularly good humour.
He had taken an old Cremona violin to pieces, and found that the
sound-post of it was about half a line more perpendicular than usual.
Important circumstance!--of priceless practical value! I was fortunate
enough to start him off on the true style of violin playing. The style
of the great old masters--copied by them from that of the really grand
singers--of which he spoke, led to the observation that now the direct
converse held good, and that singers copied the scale, and skipping
'passages' of the instrumentalists. 'What,' said I, hastening to the
piano and sitting down at it, 'can be more preposterous than those
disgusting mannerisms, more like the noise of peas rattling on the
floor of a barn than music?' I went on to sing a number of those modern
cadenza-passages, which go yooping up and down the scale, more like a
child's humming-top than anything else, and I struck a feeble chord or
two by way of accompaniment. Krespel laughed immoderately, and cried
'Ha! ha! ha! I could fancy I was listening to some of our German
Italians, or our Italian Germans, pumping out some aria of Pucitt or
Portugallo, or some other such _maestro di capella_, or rather _schiavo
d' un prime uomo_.'
"'Now,' thought I, 'is my chance at last.--I am sure Antonia,' I said,
turning to her, 'knows nothing of all that quavering stuff,' and I
commenced to roll out a glorious soulful aria of old Leonardo Leo's.
Antonia's cheeks glowed; a heavenly radiance beamed from her beautiful
eyes; she sprang to the piano; she opened her lips--but Krespel
instantly made a rush at her; shoved her out of the room, and, seizing
me by the shoulders, shrieked--'Little son, little son, little son.' He
continued, in a soft and gentle singing voice, while he took me by the
hand, bending his head with much courtesy, 'No doubt, my dear young
Master Student, it would be a breach of all courtesy and politeness if
I were to proceed to express, in plain and unmistakable words, and with
all the energy at my command, my desire that the damnable, hellish
devil might clutch hold of that throat of yours, here on the spot, with
his red-hot talons; leaving that on one side for the moment, however,
you will admit, my very dear young friend, that it's getting pretty
late in the evening, and will soon be dark; and as there are no lamps
lighted, even if I were not to pitch you down stairs, you might run a
certain risk of damaging your precious members. Go away home, like a
nice young gentleman, and don't forget your good friend Krespel, if you
should never--_never_, you understand--find him at home again when you
happen to call.' With which he took me in his arms, and slowly worked
his way with me to the door in such fashion that I could not manage to
set eyes on Antonia again for a moment.
"You will admit that, situated as I was, it was impossible for me to
give him a good hiding, as, probably, I ought to have done by rights.
The Professor laughed tremendously, and declared that I had seen the
last of Krespel for good and all; and Antonia was too precious, I might
say too sacred, in my sight, that I should go playing the languishing
_amoroso_ under her window. I left her, broken-hearted; but, as is the
case with matters of the kind, the bright tints of the picture in my
fancy gradually faded, and toned down with the lapse of time; and
Antonia, ay, even Antonia's singing, which I had never heard, came to
shine upon my memory only like some beautiful, far-away vision, bathed
in rosy radiance.
"Two years afterwards, when I was settled in B----, I had occasion to
make a journey into the South of Germany. One evening I saw the
familiar towers of H---- rising into sight against the dewy, roseate
evening sky; and as I came nearer, a strange, indescribable feeling of
painful, anxious uneasiness and alarm took possession of me, and lay on
my heart like a weight of lead. I could scarcely breathe. I got out of
the carriage into the open air. The oppression amounted to actual
physical pain. Presently I thought I could hear the notes of a solemn
hymn floating on the air; it grew more distinct, and I made out male
voices singing a choral. 'What's this, what's this,' I cried, as it
pierced through my heart like a dagger stab. 'Don't you see, sir?' said
the postillion, walking beside me, 'it's a funeral going on in the
churchyard.' We were, in fact, close to the cemetery, and I saw a
circle of people in black assembled by a grave, which was bring filled
in. The tears came to my eyes. I frit as if somehow all the happiness
and joy of my life bring buried in that grave. I had been descending
the hill pretty quickly, so that I could not now see into the cemetery.
The choral ceased, and I saw, near the gate, black-dressed men coming
away from the funeral. The Professor with his niece on his arm, both in
deep mourning, passed close to me without noticing me. The niece had
her handkerchief at her eyes' and was sobbing bitterly. I felt I could
not go into the town; I sent my servant with the carriage to the usual
hotel, and walked into the well-known country to try if I could shake
off the strange condition I was in, which I ascribed to physical
causes, being overheated and tired with my journey, etc. When I reached
the alley which leads to the public gardens, I saw a most extraordinary
sight--Krespel, led along by two men in deep mourning, whom he seemed
to be trying to escape from by all sorts of extraordinary leaps and
bounds. He was dressed, as usual, in his wonderful grey coat of his own
making; but from his little three-cornered hat, which he had cocked
over one ear in a martial manner, hung a very long, narrow streamer of
black crape, which fluttered playfully in the breeze. Round his waist
he had buckled a black sword-belt, but instead of a sword he had stuck
into it a long fiddle bow.
"The blood ran cold in my veins. 'He has gone quite mad,' I said as I
followed them slowly.
"They took him to his own door, where he embraced them, laughing loud.
They left him, and then he noticed me. He stared at me in silence for a
considerable time; then he said, in a mournful, hollow voice:
"'Glad to see you, Master Student, _you_ know all about it.' He seized
me by the arm, dragged me into the house, and upstairs to the room
where the violins hung. They were all covered with crape, but the
masterpiece by the unknown maker was not in its place, a wreath of
cypress bung in its stead.
"I knew then what had happened. 'Antonia, alas! Antonia,' I cried in
uncontrollable anguish.
"Krespel was standing in front of me with his arms folded, like a man
turned to stone.
"'When she died,' he said, very solemnly, 'the sound-post of that fiddle
shivered to pieces with a grinding crash. The faithful thing could only
live with her and in her; it is lying with her in her grave.' I sank
into a chair overpowered; but Krespel began singing a merry ditty, in a
hoarse voice; and it was a truly awful sight to see him dancing, as he
sang it, upon one foot, while the crape on his hat kept flapping about
the fiddles on the wall; and I could not help giving a scream of horror
as this crape streamer, during one of his rapid gyrations, came wafting
over my face, for I felt as if the touch of it must infallibly infect
me, and drag me, too, down into the black, terrible abyss of madness.
But when I gave the scream, Krespel stopped dancing, and said, in his
singing voice:
"'What are you shrieking out like that for, little son? Did you see the
death angel, think you? people always do before the funeral.' Then,
walking into the middle of the floor, he drew the bow out of his belt,
and, raising it with both hands above his head, he broke it into
splinters. Then he laughed long and loud, and cried, 'The staff's
broken over me now, you think, little son, don't you?[2]
nothing of the kind, nothing of the kind!'
"'I'm free now--I'm free! I'm free!
And fiddles I'll make no more, boys!
And fiddles I'll make no more!
Hurray! hurray! hip-hip hurray!
Oh! fiddles I'll make no more.'"
"This he sang to a terribly merry tune, dancing about on one foot again
as he did so. Full of horror I was making for the door; but he held me
back, saying, quite quietly and soberly this time:
"'Don't go away, Master Student. Don't think that those outbreaks of my
pain, which is so terrible that I can scarcely bear it longer, mean
that I am mad. No, no, I am as sane as you are, and as calmly in my
senses. The only thing is, a little while ago I made myself a
nightshirt, and thought when I had it on I should be like Destiny, or
God.' He went on talking the wildest incoherence for a time, till he
sank down, completely exhausted. The old housekeeper came at my
summons, and I was thankful when I found myself outside in the open
air.
"I never doubted for an instant that Krespel had gone completely mad;
but the Professor maintained the contrary. 'There are people,' he said,
'in whose cases Nature, or some destiny or other, has deprived them of
the cover--the exterior envelope--under which we others carry on our
madnesses unseen. They are like certain insects who have transparent
integuments, which (as we see the play of their muscular movements)
give the effect of a malformation, although everything is perfectly
normal. What never passes beyond the sphere of thought in us becomes
action in Krespel. The bitter scorn and rage which the soul, imprisoned
as it is in earthly conditions of being and action, often vividly
feels, Krespel carries out, or expresses, into external life, by
extraordinarily frantic gesticulations and hare jumps. But those are
his lightning conductors. What comes out of the earth he delivers back
to the earth again; the heavenly he retains, and consequently
apprehends it quite clearly and distinctly with his inner
consciousness, notwithstanding all the crackiness which we sparking out
of him. No doubt Antonia's unexpected loss touches him very keenly, but
I should bet that he'll be going on in his usual jog trot to-morrow as
if nothing had happened.'
"And it turned out very much as the Professor had expected: Krespel
appeared next morning very much as if nothing had happened. Only he
announced that he had given up fiddle-making, and would never play on
one again. And it afterwards appeared that he kept his word.
"All that I had heard from the Professor strengthened my conviction
that the relation in which Antonia had stood to Krespel--so very
intimate, and so carefully kept unexplained--as also the fact that she
was dead--very probably involved him in a very serious responsibility,
which he might find it by no means easy to clear himself from. I made
up my mind that I would not leave H---- until I had given him the full
benefit of my ideas on this subject. My notion was to thoroughly alarm
him, to appeal to his conscience, and, if I could, constrain him to a
full confession of his crime. The more I considered the matter the
clearer it seemed that he must be a terrible villain; and all the more
eloquent and impressive grew the allocution which I mentally got ready
to deliver to him, and which gradually took the form of a regular
masterpiece of rhetoric.
"Thus prepared for my attack, T betook myself to him in a condition of
much virtuous indignation one morning.
"I found him making children's toys at his turning lathe, with a
tranquil smile on his face.
"'How,' said I, 'is it possible that your conscience can allow you to
be at peace for an instant, when the thought of the horrible crime you
have been guilty of must perpetually sting you like a serpent's tooth?'
"He laid down his tools, and stared at me in astonishment.
"'What do you mean, my good sir?' he said. 'Sit down on that chair
there.'
"But I went on, with much warmth, and distinctly accused him of having
caused Antonia's death, threatening him with the vengeance of Heaven.
Nay more, being full of juridical zeal--as I had just been inducted
into a judicial appointment--I went on to assure him that I should
consider it my duty to leave no stone unturned to bring the affair
thoroughly to light, so as to deliver him into the hands of earthly
justice. I was a little put out, I admit, when, on the conclusion of my
rather pompous harangue, Krespel, without a word in reply, merely
looked at me as if waiting for what I had to say next: and I tried to
find something further to add: but everything that occurred to me
seemed so silly and feeble that I held my peace. He seemed rather to
enjoy this breakdown in my eloquence, and a bitter smile passed over
his face, but then he became very grave, and said in a solemn tone:
"'My good young sir! Very likely you think me a fool--or a madman. I
forgive you. We are both in the same madhouse, and you object to my
thinking myself God the Father, because you think you are God the Son.
How do you suppose you can enter into another person's life, utterly
unknown to you in all its complicated turnings and windings, and pick
up and follow all its deeply hidden threads? She is gone, and the
riddle is solved!'
"He stopped, rose, and walked two or three times up and down the room.
I ventured to ask for some explanation. He looked at me fixedly, took
me by the hand, and led me to the window, opening both the outside
jalousies. He leaned upon the sill with both his arms, and, so looking
out into the garden, he told me the story of his life.
"When he had ended, I left him deeply affected, and bitterly ashamed.
"To make a long tale short, matters as concerned Antonia stood as
follows:
"Some twenty years previously, his fancy of making a collection of the
finest violins of the great old makers had taken him to Italy. At that
time he had not begun to make violins himself, neither, consequently,
to take them to pieces. At Venice he heard the renowned prima donna,
Angela, at that time shining in the leading _rôles_ at the Teatro di
San Benedetto. She was as supereminent in beauty as she was in art: and
well became, and deserved, her name of Angela. He sought her
acquaintance, and, in spite of all his rugged uncouthness, his most
remarkable violin playing, with its combination of great originality,
force and tenderness, speedily won her artist's heart. A close intimacy
led, in a few weeks, to a marriage--which not made public--because
Angela would neither leave the stage, give up her well-known name, nor
tack on to it strangely-sounding 'Krespel.' He described, with the
bitterest irony, the quite peculiar ingenuity with which Signora Angela
commenced, as soon as she was his wife, to torment and torture him. All
the selfishness, caprice, and obstinacy of all the prima donnas on
earth rolled into one, were, as Krespel considered, incorporated in
Angela's little body. Whenever he tried to assert his true position in
the smallest degree, she would launch a swarm of _abbates_, _maestros_,
and _academicos_ about his ears, who, not knowing his real relations
with her, would snub him, and set him down as a wretched unendurable
ass of an amateur _inamorato_, incapable of adapting himself to the
Signora's charming and interesting humours. After one of those stormy
scenes, Krespel had flown off to Angela's country house, and
phantasizing on his Cremona, was forgetting the sorrows of the day.
This had not lasted long, however, when the Signora, who had followed
him, came into the room. She happened to be in a tender mood: she
embraced Krespel with sweet, languishing glances, she laid her little
head upon his shoulder. But Krespel, lost in the world of his
harmonies, went on fiddling, so that the walls reechoed; and it so
chanced that he touched the Signora, a trifle ungently, with his
bow-arm. She blazed up like a fury, screamed out, '_Bestia tedesca_,'
snatched the violin out of his hand, and dashed it to pieces on a
marble table. Krespel stood before her for a moment, a statue of
amazement, and then, as if awaking from a dream, he grasped the Signora
as with the fists of a giant, shied her out of the window of her own
_palazzo_, and set off--without concerning himself further about the
matter--to Venice, and thence to Germany. It was some little time
before he quite realized what he had done. Though he knew the window
was only some five feet from the ground, and the necessity of throwing
the Signora out of it under the circumstances was quite indisputable,
still he felt very anxious as to the results, inasmuch as she had given
him to understand that he was 'about to be a father.' He was almost
afraid to make any inquiries, and was not a little surprised, some
eight months afterwards, to receive an affectionate letter from his
beloved wife, in which she did not say a syllable about the little
circumstance which had occurred at the country _palazzo_, but announced
that she was the happy mother of a charming little daughter, and prayed
the '_marito amato e padre felicissimo_' to come as quickly as he could
to Venice. However, Krespel didn't go, but made inquiries through a
trusted friend as to what had happened. He was told that the Signora
had dropped down on to the grass as lightly as a bird, and the only
results of her fall were mental ones. The Signora had been like a new
creature after Krespel's heroic achievement. All her wilfulness and
charming caprices had disappeared completely; and the _maestro_ who
wrote the music for the next Carnival considered himself the luckiest
man under the sun; inasmuch as the Signora sang all his arias without
one of the thousand alterations which, in ordinary circumstances, she
would have insisted on his making in them. Krespel's friend added that
it was most desirable to give no publicity to what had occurred,
because, otherwise, _prima donnas_ would be getting pitched out of
window every day.
"Krespel was in great excitement. He ordered horses. He got in to the
post-chaise.
"'Stop a moment, though,' he said. 'Isn't it a positive certainty that,
as soon as I make my appearance, the evil spirit will take possession
of Angela again? I've thrown her out of window once already. What
should I do a second time? I don't see what I could do.'
"He got out of the carriage, wrote an affectionate letter to his wife,
and--remained in Germany. They carried on a warm correspondence.
Assurances of affection, fond imaginings, regrets for the absence of
the beloved, etc., etc., flew backwards and forwards between H---- and
Venice. Angela came to Germany, as we know, and shone as prima donna on
the boards at F----. Though she was no longer young, she carried
everything before her by the irresistible charm of her singing. Her
voice had lost nothing at that time. Meanwhile Antonia had grown up;
and her mother could scarce find words in which to describe, to
Krespel, how, in Antonia, a Cantatrice of the first rank was blossoming
out. Krespel's friends in F----, too, kept on telling him of this;
begging him to go there and hear these two remarkable singers. Of
course they had no idea of the relationship in which Krespel stood to
them. He would fain have gone and seen his daughter, who lived in the
depths of his heart, and whom he often saw in dreams. But the thought
of what his wife was restrained him: and he stayed at home, amongst his
dismembered fiddles.
"I daresay you remember a very promising young composer in F---- of the
name of B----, who suddenly ceased to be heard of--no one knew why:
perhaps you may have known him. Well, he fell deeply in love with
Antonia; she returned his affection, and he urged her mother to consent
to a union consecrated by art. Angela was quite willing, and Krespel
gave his consent all the more readily that this young _maestro's_
writings had found favour before his critical tribunal. Krespel was
expecting to hear of the marriage every day, when there came a letter
with a black seal, addressed in a stranger's hand. A certain Dr.
M---- wrote to say that Angela had been taken seriously ill, in
consequence of a chill caught at the theatre, and had passed away on the
very night before the day fixed for Antonia's marriage. He added that
Angela had told him she was Krespel's wife, and Antonia his daughter;
so that he ought to come and take charge of her. Deeply as he was shocked
by Angela's death, he could not but feel that a certain disturbing element
was removed from his life, and that he could breathe freely, for the
first time for many a long day. You cannot imagine how affectingly he
described the moment when he saw Antonia for the first time. In the
very oddness of his description of it lay a wonderful power of
expression which I am unable to give any idea of. Antonia had all the
charm and attractiveness of Angela, with none of her nasty reverse
side. There was no cloven foot peeping out anywhere. B----, her husband
that was to have been, came. Antonia comprehending her quaint father,
with delicate tact, and seeing into his inner depths, sang one of those
motetts of old Padre Martini which she knew Angela used to sing to him
during the fullest blossom-time of their days of love. He shed rivers
of tears. Never had he heard even Angela sing so splendidly. The tone
of Antonia's voice was quite _sui generis_--at times it was like the
Æolian harp, at others like the trilling roulades of the nightingale.
It seemed as though there could not be space for those tones in a human
breast. Antonia, glowing with love and happiness, sang all her best
solos, and B---- played between whiles as only ecstatic inspiration can
play. At first, Krespel floated in ecstasy. Then he grew thoughtful and
silent, at last he sprung up, pressed Antonia to his heart, and said,
gently and imploringly, 'Don't sing any more, if you love me. It breaks
my heart. The fear of it--the fear of it! Don't sing any more.'
"'No,' said Krespel next morning to Dr. M----, 'when, during her
singing, her colour contracted to two dark red spots on her white
cheeks, it was no longer a mere everyday family likeness--it was what I
had been dreading.' The doctor, whose face at the beginning of the
conversation had expressed deep anxiety, said, 'Perhaps it may be that
she has exerted herself too much in singing when over-young, or her
inherited temperament may be the cause. But Antonia has organic disease
of the chest. It is that which gives her voice its extraordinary power,
and its most remarkable timbre, which is almost beyond the scope of the
ordinary human voice. At the same time it implies her early death. If
she goes on singing, six months is the utmost I can promise her.' This
pierced Krespel's heart like a thousand daggers. It was as if some
beautiful tree had suddenly come into his life, all covered with
beautiful blossoms, and it was sawn across at the root. His decision
was made at once. He told Antonia all. He left it to her to decide
whether she would follow her lover, and yield to his and the world's
claims on her, and die young, or bestow upon her father, in his
declining years, a peace and happiness such as he had never known, and
live many a year in so doing.
"She fell sobbing into her father's arms. It was beyond his power to
think at such a moment. He felt too keenly all the anguish involved in
either alternative. He discussed the matter with B----; but although he
asseverated that Antonia should never sing a single note, Krespel knew
too well that he never would be able to resist the temptation to hear
her sing compositions of his own at all events. Then the world--the
musical public--though it knew the true state of the case, would never
give up its claims upon her. The musical public is a cruel race; where
its own enjoyment is in question, and terrible.
"Krespel disappeared with Antonia from F----, and came to H----.
B---- heard with despair of their departure, followed on their track,
and arrived at H---- at the same time that they did.
"'Only let me see him once, and then die!' Antonia implored.
"'Die--die!' cried Krespel in the wildest fury. His daughter, the only
creature in the wide world who could fire him with a bliss he had never
otherwise felt, the only being who had ever made life endurable to him,
was tearing herself violently away from him. So the worst might happen,
and he would give no sign.
"B---- sat down to the piano, Antonia sang, and Krespel played the
violin, till suddenly the dark red spots came to Antonia's cheeks. Then
Krespel ordered a halt, but when B---- took his farewell she fell down
insensible in a swoon.
"'I thought she was dead,' Krespel said, 'for I quite expected it would
kill her; and as I had wound myself up to expect the worst, I kept
quite calm and self-possessed. I took hold of B---- by the shoulders
(in his frightful consternation he was staring before him like a
sheep), and said (here he fell into his singing voice), "My dear Mr.
Pianoforte-teacher, now that you have killed the woman you were going
to marry by your own deliberate act, perhaps you will be so kind as to
take yourself off out of this with as little trouble as you can, unless
you choose to stay till I run this little hunting-knife through you, so
that my daughter, who, as you see, is looking rather white, may derive
a shade or two of colour from that precious blood of yours. Even though
you run pretty quick, I could throw a fair sized knife after you."
I suppose I must have looked rather terrible as I said this, for
B---- dashed away with a scream of terror downstairs, and out of the
door.'
"When, after B----'s departure, Krespel went to raise Antonia, who was
lying senseless on the floor, she opened her eyes with a profound sigh,
but seemed to close them again, as if in death. Krespel then broke out
into loud, inconsolable lamentations. The doctor, fetched by the old
housekeeper, said that Antonia was suffering from a violent shock, but
that there was no danger, and this proved to be the case, and she
recovered even more speedily than was to be expected. She now clung to
her father with the most devoted filial affection, and entered warmly
into all his favourite hobbies, however absurd. She helped him to take
old fiddles to pieces, and to put new ones together. 'I won't sing any
more. I want to live for you,' she would often say to her father with a
gentle smile, when people asked her to sing, and she was obliged to
refuse. Krespel endeavoured to spare her those trials, and this was why
he avoided taking her into society, and tried to taboo all music. He
knew, of course, what a pain it was to her to renounce the art which
she had cultivated to such perfection. When he bought the remarkable
violin already spoken of--the one which was buried with her--and was
going to take it to pieces, Antonia looked at him very sorrowfully, and
said, gently imploring him, 'This one, too?' Some indescribable impulse
constrained him to leave it untouched, and to play on it. Scarcely had
he brought out a few notes from it when Antonia cried, loudly and
joyfully, 'Ah! that is I--that is I singing again.' And of a verity its
silver bell-like tones had something quite extraordinarily wonderful
about them. They sounded as if they came out of a human heart. Krespel
was deeply affected. He played more gloriously than ever he had done
before. And when, with his fullest power, he would go storming over the
strings, in brilliant, sparkling scales and _arpeggios_, Antonia would
clap her hands and cry, delighted, 'Ah! I did that well. I did that
splendidly!' Often she would say to him, 'I should like to sing
something, father'; and then he would take the fiddle from the wall,
and play all her favourite solos, those which she used to sing of
old,--and then she was quite happy.
"A short time before I came back, Krespel one night thought he heard
some one playing on the piano in the next room, and presently he
recognized that it was B----, preluding in his accustomed rather
peculiar fashion. He tried to rise from his bed, but some strange heavy
weight seemed to lie upon him, fettering him there, so that he could
not move. Presently he heard Antonia singing to the piano, in soft
whispering tones, which gradually swelled, and swelled to the most
pealing _fortissimo_. Then those marvellous tones took the form of a
beautiful, glorious _aria_ which B---- had once written for Antonia, in
the religious style of the old masters. Krespel said the state in which
he found himself was indescribable, for terrible alarm was in it, and
also a bliss such as he had never before known. Suddenly he found
himself in the middle of a flood of the most brilliant and dazzling
light, and in this light he saw B---- and Antonia holding each other
closely embraced, and looking at each other in a rapture of bliss. The
tones of the singing and of the accompanying piano went on, although
Antonia was not seen to be singing, and B---- was not touching the
piano. Here Krespel fell into a species of profound unconsciousness, in
which the vision and the music faded and were lost. When he recovered,
all that remained was a sense of anxiety and alarm. He hastened into
Antonia's room.
"She was lying on the couch, with her eyes, closed, and a heavenly
smile on her face, as if she were dreaming of the most exquisite
happiness and bliss. But she was dead!"
Whilst Theodore had been telling this tale, Ottmar had been manifesting
his impatience nay, his lively repugnance in various ways. Sometimes he
would get up and walk about the room, then he would sit down again, and
drink glass after glass of the contents of the vase; then he sat down
at Theodore's table, and pulled the papers about, till he found an
almanac, of which he eagerly turned over the leaves for a time, till at
length he laid it down before him, open on the table, with the air of
having discovered something in it of the deepest interest and
importance.
"Well!" cried Lothair, when Theodore had ended his story; "this is
almost too much. You can't bear the idea of the kindly visionary whom
Cyprian told us about; you tell us it is dangerous to peep down into
those mysterious abysses of nature; you will neither talk about things
of the sort, nor hear them talked about, yet you come in upon us with
a story which, frightful as it is in its crackiness, is infinitely
beyond, at all events, _my_ powers of endurance. What was the
gentle, happy, contented Serapion in comparison with this splenetic
Krespel--absolutely terrific in his spleneticism? You said we were to
be led, gently, from insanity, _viâ_ eccentricity, to ordinary,
everyday rationality; and you go on to show us pictures which, if we
look at them with any closeness, are enough to drive us clean out of
our senses. Cyprian's story was largely tinctured by his own
individuality, but yours was so by yours in a far higher degree, for I
know that the moment music is in question, you get into a sort of
magnetized condition, and see the strangest visions. As is usual with
you, you have given your story a strong dash of mystery which, of course,
excites and enthrals a listener, as anything out of the common groove
will do, be it never so morbid. But there are limits to all things; and
it is not right to drive people to the verge of insanity in this
gratuitous sort of way. Antonia's story and circumstances, and the
mysterious sympathy between her and that ancient violin are very
touching, but in a way which makes one's blood curdle, and the _finale_
of the tale produces an inconsolable misery which I cannot but call
excessively painful--in fact, I consider it 'abominable.' It is a
strong expression; but I really don't see that I can well retract it."
"Are you accusing me," asked Theodore with a smile, "of having harrowed
your feelings with a more or less elaborately constructed fiction? I
was merely telling you about a strange character, of whom I was
reminded by the story of Serapion. I merely related circumstances which
actually occurred; and if you think any of them improbable, remember,
my dear sir, that it is nearly always the most improbable things that
really come to pass."
"Very likely," said Lothair. "Still, that is small excuse for you. You
should cither have told us nothing about this horrible Krespel, or
(admirable colourist as you are) you should have shown him in more
agreeable tints. However, we have had more than enough of that
distressful architect, _diplomate_, and fiddle maker. May he sink Into
oblivion? But now, Cyprian, I bend my knee to you. I shall never call
you a fanciful spirit-seer again. You have given us a strange proof
that reminiscences are very remarkable and mysterious things. All this
day you have not been able to get poor Serapion out of your mind, and I
see quite clearly that you have been much relieved, and happier, since
you told us his story. Now just come and look at this book here, this
excellent specimen of the ordinary household almanac, for it contains a
key to the whole mystery. This, you see, is the 14th of November. It
was on the 14th of November that you found your hermit lying dead in
his hut, and though you were not vouchsafed the assistance of a couple
of lions to bury him--as Ottmar suggested--and met with no particularly
wonderful adventures in the forest, of course you were deeply affected
at the sight of your friend, who had passed to his rest so gently. The
impression was ineradicable; and it may well be supposed that the
spirit within you brought the image of your friend more vividly before
you than usual on the anniversary of his death, by some process of
which you were unconscious. Do me the kindness, Cyprian, to add a
miraculous circumstance or two to your account of Serapion's death,
just to enrich the conclusion of it a little."
"When I was leaving the hut," said Cyprian, "the tame deer, which I
told you about, came up to me with great tears in its eyes, and the
wild doves hovered about me with anxious cries; and as I was
approaching the village, to give information of his death, I met some
peasants coming with a bier, all ready, who said that when they had
heard the hermit's bell tolling at an unusual time they had known that
the holy man had laid himself down to die, or was dead already. That is
all, dear Lothair, that I have to serve up by way of a subject for your
banter."
"Banter, do you say?" cried Lothair, rising. "What do you take me for,
O my Cyprianus? Am I not, like Brutus, an honourable man; just and
upright; a lover of the truth? Don't I enthusi-ize with the
enthusiasts, and phantazize with the phantazizers? Do I not rejoice
with them that do rejoice, and weep with those that weep? Just look
here, my Cyprianus! Look once again at this book, this literary
production here, crammed with incontrovertible facts, this most
excellent specimen of the common, every-day household almanac. At the
date '14th November' you find, it is true, the commonplace, every-day
name 'Levin.' But cast your eyes upon this 'catholic' column here.
There stands, in red letters,
"'SERAPION, MARTYR.'
"Consequently, your Serapion died on the very name-day of the Saint whom
he took himself to be! Come; I drink this cup to the memory of
Serapion, saint and martyr, and do you all do likewise!"
"'With all my heart!' said Cyprian, and the glasses clinked.
"Looking at the subject all round," said Lothair, "and especially now
that Theodore has so thoroughly stirred my bile with that horrible
Krespel of his, I am quite reconciled to Cyprian's Serapion. More than
that, I honour and reverence his insanity; for none but a grand and
genuine poet could have been attacked by a madness of that particular
form. I needn't advert to the circumstance--it's an old, well-worn
story--that, originally, the same word was used to denote the poet and
the seer; but it is certain that we might often doubt just as much of
the existence of real poets as of that of genuine seers, recounting in
their _extasis_ the wonders of a higher realm; or else why is it that
so much poetry, by no means to be termed 'bad' (so far as its form and
workmanship are concerned), affects us no more than some pale, faded
picture, so that we are not carried away by it at all, and the
gorgeousness of its diction only serves to increase the frost which it
permeates us with? Why is this, but because the poet has never really
_seen_ what he is telling us about: the events and incidents have never
appeared to his mental vision, in all their joy, terror, splendour,
majesty, gloom, and sadness, inspiring him, and setting him aglow, so
that his inward fire blazes forth in words of lightning? It is useless
for a poet to set to work to make us believe in a thing which he does
not believe in himself, cannot believe in, because he has never really
seen it. What can the characters of a poet of this sort--who
(according to the old expression) is not at the same time a genuine
seer--be but deceptive puppets, glued together out of heterogeneous
stuff? Your hermit, dear Cyprian, was a true poet. He had actually seen
what he described; and that was why he affected people's hearts and
souls. Poor Serapion! Wherein did your madness consist? except that
some hostile star had taken away your faculty of discerning that
duplexity which is, really, the essential condition of our earthly
existence. There is an inner world; and a spiritual faculty of
discerning it with absolute clearness, nay, with the most minute and
brilliant distinctness. But it is part of our earthly lot that it is
the _outer_ world, in which we are encased, which is the lever that
brings that spiritual faculty into play. The things of the inner world
appear to us only inside the circle which is formed round us by the
objects of the outer world, beyond which circle our spirits cannot
soar, except in dim mysterious bodings--never; becoming distinct
images--that such things exist. But you, happy hermit, lost sight of
the outer world, and did not perceive the lever which set your inward
faculty in motion; and when, with that gruesome acumen of yours, you
declared that it is only the mind which sees, hears, and takes
cognizance of events and incidents, and that, as a consequence,
whatever the mind takes cognizance of has actually happened, you forgot
that it is the outer world which causes the spirit to exercise those
functions which, take cognizance. Your life was a constant dream, from
which your awaking in another world was assuredly not a painful one. I
consecrate this glass to your memory."
"Don't you notice," said Ottmar, "that Lothair is looking quite a
different person--thanks to Theodore's admirably compounded beverage,
which has driven the evil spirit out of him?"
"Don't ascribe my better mood to the influence of the bowl," said
Lothair. "You all know that, till the evil mood has left me, I never
can touch wine. The truth is that I have only just begun to feel at
ease, and at home, amongst you. The restless, excited state in which I
was at first has gone; and as I not only forgive Cyprian for telling us
about Serapion, but feel a real affection for him, why, Theodore's
horrible 'Krespel' may pass muster as well. But there are a good many
things I should like to say to you. We seem to be all agreed that we
are a set of rather uncommonly superior people, and we have made up our
minds to reconstitute our old alliance; whilst the bustle of this great
town, our distance from each other, and the diversity of our
occupations tend to keep us apart. Let us determine, then, this
evening, the times and places of our weekly meetings. More than that,
it cannot but be that, as of old, we shall wish to read to each other
such little stories, and so forth, as we may have been writing from
time to time. Let us remember Serapion the Hermit in connection with
this. Let each of us try, and examine himself well, as to whether he
has really _seen_ what he is going to describe before he sets to work
to put it in words. At all events, let each of us strive, very
strenuously, to get a clear grasp, in his mind, of the picture he is
going to produce,--in every one of its forms, colours, lights and
shadows, and then, when he feels himself thoroughly permeated and
kindled by it, bring it out into outer life. Thus shall our society be
established on solid foundations, and be a source of comfort and
gratification to us all. Let Serapion the Hermit be our patron saint:
may his seer-gift inspire us. His rule we will follow, as true Serapion
Brethren."
"Now," said Cyprian, "is not our Lothair the most extraordinary of all
extraordinary fellows? At first he was the one who flamed furiously up
in opposition to Ottmar's very sensible suggestion that we should meet
every week on a certain evening, and dragged in the subject of clubs,
without rhyme or reason. And now he is the very one to prove to us that
our meetings are a necessity, as well as a pleasure, and to set to work
to determine their character, and lay down the rules which are to
govern them."
"I certainly did, at first, feel opposed to the idea of there being
anything in the shape of formal conditions attached to our meetings,"
said Lothair, "but I was in a peculiar mood then, which has passed away
now. There is no danger of our drifting into Philistinism. Everybody
has more on less of a tendency towards it, however sublimely he may
strive against it; and perhaps a certain spice of it may not always be
an unmitigated evil. However, we needn't bother ourselves about
whatever little clouds, of any sort, may rise on our horizon from time
to time. The devil is sure to bring some over us, as opportunities
offer. Let us discuss the Serapiontic principle. What are your views
about it?"
Theodore, Ottmar and Cyprian all thought that their union would have
been sure to assume a literary character, of itself, though nothing had
been expressly stipulated to that affect,--and at once took the vow of
obedience to the rule of Serapion the Hermit, so clearly formulated by
Lothair; which, as Theodore pointed out, amounted to this--that they
should never vex each other's souls by the production of scamped work.
So they clinked their glasses joyously, and gave each other the
fraternal embrace of the true Serapion Brother.
"Midnight," said Ottmar, "is still a long way off, and I think it would
be very nice if one of us were to relate something more pleasant and
amusing, by way of throwing the melancholy, nay terrible, events we
have been dealing with into the background a little. I think it rests
properly with Theodore to operate his promised 'Transition to Ordinary
Rationality.'"
"If you like," said Theodore, "I will read you a little story which I
wrote some time ago, which was suggested to me by a picture. When I saw
this picture, I discovered a meaning in it which the painter of it had
certainly never dreamt of--could not have dreamt of in fact--because it
referred to circumstances in my own early life, which the picture
brought strangely back to my memory."
"I sincerely trust there are no mad people in it," said Lothair; "for I
have had more than my fill of them already: and I hope it conforms to
the rule of our patron saint."
"There are no mad people in it," said Theodore, "but, as to its
conformity with Serapiontic rule, I must leave that to the verdict of
my worthy brethren, begging them at the same time not to judge me too
severely, seeing that my little story was suggested by a light, airy
picture, and makes no pretence but to cause a passing moment's
entertainment."
With which Theodore produced his manuscript, and began as follows:
"AN INTERRUPTED CADENCE.
"In the Berlin autumn Exhibition of 1814, there was a charming picture
of Hummel's, called 'A Scene in an Italian Locanda,' which attracted
much attention. It was both light and vigorous, and had all the effect
of representing a real occurrence. The scene was a garden-arbour, thick
with the luxuriant leafage of the South. Two Italian ladies, seated
opposite to one another, at a table, with wine and fruit--one of
them singing, the other accompanying her on a guitar. Between them,
and behind the table, an _abbate_, standing beating the time, as
music-director; his hand was raised, as a conductor's is when a singer
is executing a _cadenza_, watching carefully and anxiously for the
precise instant when the singer--evidently warbling out her cadence,
with eyes upraised to the sky--should come in with her _trillo_--her long
shake; at the precise termination of which it would be his duty to make
his down-beat, on which signal the guitarist should strike in with her
chord of the dominant. The _abbate_, all admiration and intense
enjoyment, was watching for the proper instant to made his down-beat as
a cat watches a mouse. Not if his life depended on it would he depass
that precise instant by a hair's-breadth. Fain would he muzzle every
fly, every mosquito, humming about under the leaves. Most distressful
to him the approach of the landlord, who had selected that particular
moment to come in with more wine. Beyond the arbour, in the middle
distance, a shaded alley, with streams of bright sunlight breaking
athwart it through the branches; and a man on horseback, drinking a
cool draught, served to him by a girl from the _locanda_.
"Edward and Theodore were standing studying this picture; and Edward
said:
"'The more I look at this picture; at that lady singing--not quite so
young as she has been, but inspired by genuine artistic enthusiasm--at
the pure, intellectual Roman profile, and the magnificent figure of the
lady accompanying on the guitar, and at the delicious little _abbate_
beating the time, the more convinced I am that they are portraits of
real, living persons. I feel as if I should like to step into that
arbour and open one of those delightful wicker-covered flasks that are
smiling at me on that table there. I can almost fancy I scent the aroma
of the noble wine. And that latter idea must be realised, and not
allowed to evaporate in this chill atmosphere. I propose that we go and
drink a bottle of real Italian wine, in honour of this charming
picture, and of the happy land of Italy, the only country where life is
worth living.'
"As Edward so spoke, Theodore was standing silent, sunk in deep
reflection.
"'Very well--yes--we may as well,' he answered, like a man waking from
a dream. Yet he seemed loth to tear himself away from the picture, and
still kept casting longing glances at it when he had mechanically
followed his friend to the door.
"It was an easy matter to put Edward's idea into practice. They had
only to cross the street to find themselves in the little blue room in
the Sala Tarone, with a wicker-covered flask, like those in the
picture, on the table before them.
"'You seem, somehow,' said Edward, when they had swallowed two or three
glasses of the Italian wine, and Theodore was still sitting silent and
thoughtful,--'you seem, somehow, as if that picture had produced a
different impression, and a far less pleasant one, on you than on me.'
"'I delight in that picture as much as anybody,' answered Theodore.
'But the extraordinary thing about it is, that it chances to represent
a scene in my early life, with the utmost exactness, so that the very
characters in it are absolute portraits of the real actors in that
scene. You will admit that even pleasant reminiscences affect us
strangely when they come bursting in upon us in this utterly unexpected
sort of manner, as if evoked by the wand of an enchanter.'
"'What a very extraordinary affair,' said Edward. 'You say this picture
represents an incident, in your own life? It seems probable enough that
the two ladies and the _abbate_ are likenesses of real people: but that
they should ever have had anything to do with _you_ is certainly
amazing enough. Do tell me all about it. We are not pressed for time,
and nobody is likely to come in and disturb us at this hour of the
day.'
"'I should rather like to tell you about it,' said Theodore, 'only I
shall have to go a longish way back, to the time when I was a mere
boy.'
"Please go on, then, and tell me about it,' said Edward. 'I don't know
much about your early life; and if it does take some time in telling we
shall only have to send for another bottle of this Italian wine; nobody
will be the worse for that, neither we nor Signor Tarone.'
"'Nobody who knows me,' said Theodore, 'need feel any surprise at my
having thrown everything else overboard, and devoted myself, body and
soul, to the glorious art, music. Even when I was a mere child, music
was the only thing I really cared about. I would hammer all day, and
all night, too, if people would have allowed me, upon my uncle's old
rattle-trap of a piano. Music was at an extremely low ebb in the little
place where we lived; there was nobody to give me any instruction but
an old, conceited, self-opinionated organist. His music was of the
lifeless, mathematical order. He wearied my soul with a lot of ugly
gloomy _toccatas_ and _fugues_. However, I did not let this discourage
me, but laboured faithfully on. The old fellow would often gird at me
in bitter and unsparing terms; but he had only to sit down and play me
something in his severely accurate manner, to reconcile me to life and
art in a moment. Often the most wonderful ideas would come into my head
on such occasions; many of Sebastian Bach's works, for instance, and
they above all others, would fill me with a weird awe, as if they were
legends about spirits and enchanters. But a perfect paradise opened
upon me when, as happened in winter, the town band gave a concert,
assisted by a few local amateurs, and I was allowed to play the
kettledrums in the symphony, a favour granted to me on account of the
accuracy of my time. It was many a day before I knew what wretched and
ludicrous affairs those concerts were. My master, the organist,
generally played a couple of pianoforte concertos of Wolff or Emanuel
Bach; one of the bandsmen tortured himself--and his hearers--with some
violin solo of Stamitz, and the excise officer blew terrifically on a
flute, and wasted so much breath in the process, that he kept blowing
out the candles on his desk, so that they had to be constantly lighted
up again. Nothing in the shape of singing could be accomplished, and
this was a source of deep regret to my uncle, a "great" amateur
musician. He remembered the days when the choir-masters of the four
churches used to sing "Lottchen am Hofe" at the concerts, and he used
to refer, with high approbation, to the fine spirit of religious
tolerance which actuated those musicians, who laid aside their
religious differences, and united in these performances, coming
together, irrespective of creed, on a common basis of art. For, besides
the Catholic and the Evangelical communities, the Protestants
themselves were divided into French and German churches. The French
choir-master used to take the part of "Charlotte," and my uncle used to
say he sang it--spectacles on nose--in the loveliest falsetto that ever
issued from a human throat.
"'There dwelt amongst us, at this period, a certain "court-singer,"
retired on pension, whose name was Mademoiselle Meibel. She was a
demoiselle of some five-and-fifty summers, but my uncle thought it
would be only a proper thing if she could be induced to emerge
occasionally from her pensioned retirement, so far as to sing a solo
now and then at our concerts. After giving herself the proper amount of
airs, and saying "no" a sufficient number of times, she graciously
yielded, so that we got the length of including an occasional "_Aria di
Bravura_" in our programmes. She was an extraordinary-looking creature,
Mademoiselle Meibel. I can see her little wizened figure at this moment
as if she were here before my eyes. She used to come forward on to the
platform, very grave and dignified, her music in her hand, dressed in
nearly all the colours of the rainbow, and make a ceremonious dip of
the upper part of her body to the audience. She used to have on a
miraculous sort of head-gear, with Italian porcelain flowers stuck on
the front of it; and, as she sung, these flowers used to nod and quiver
in the oddest fashion. When she ended her solo--received always by the
audience with boundless applause--she would hand her music, with a
glance of pride, to my master, who was accorded the privilege of
dipping his forefinger and thumb into the little box, in the shape of a
pug dog, which she at such times produced, and took snuff from with a
courtly air. She had a most disagreeable, quavering voice, and
introduced all kinds of horrible, vulgar grace-notes and flourishes;
and you can imagine the ludicrous effect which this, in combination
with her external appearance, produced on me. My uncle was loud in
encomiums, but this was incomprehensible to me, and I sided all the
more with my organist, who despised all vocal music, and used to mimic
old Mademoiselle Meibel in the most entertaining style.
"'The more I coincided with my master in considering all singing to be
an inferior province of the musical art, the higher waxed his estimate
of my musical endowments. He taught me counterpoint with untiring,
indefatigable pains and zeal, and ere long I was able to write the
correctest of _fugues_ and _toccatas_.
"'On my nineteenth birthday, I was playing one of those compositions of
mine to my uncle, when the waiter of our principal hotel came in, and
announced that two foreign ladies, who had just arrived in the town,
were coming to see us.
"Before my uncle had time to throw off his large-flowered dressing-gown
and dress himself, the ladies were in upon us.
"You know the electrical effect which any unusual apparition of this
sort has upon people who live in small provincial places, but the one
which now appeared to me was really such as to produce on me the effect
of the wave of some enchanter's wand.
"'Picture to yourself two tall, handsome Italian girls, dressed in the
latest fashions, walking up to my uncle, with a combination of artistic
ease and charming courtesy of manner, and talking away to him in voices
which were extremely loud, and yet remarkably beautiful in tone. What
was the curious language they were speaking? Now and then but only now
and then it sounded something like German.
"'My uncle didn't understand a word of it. He stepped back, completely
nonplussed, and pointed in silence to the sofa; they sat down there and
talked to each other. _That_ was real music. Ultimately they managed to
explain to my uncle that they were singers on a tour, intended giving
some concerts, and had been recommended to apply to him as a person who
could assist them in the necessary arrangements. While they had been
talking to each other I had gathered their names; Lauretta, who seemed
to be the elder of the two, kept talking away to my bewildered uncle,
with immense energy and eager gesticulation, glancing about her with
beaming eyes the while. Without being to be called "stout," she was
luxuriant of figure to a degree which was at that time something wholly
novel to my inexperienced--and admiring--eyes. Teresina, taller and
slighter, with a long earnest face, spoke, in the intervals, very
little, but much more comprehensibly. Every now and then she would
smile, in a curious way, as if a good deal amused at the aspect of my
poor uncle, who kept shrinking into his flowered dressing-gown as a
snail does into its shell, vainly trying to stick away a certain string
belonging to his nether garments, which would keep fluttering out every
now and then, to the length of an ell or so.
"'At last they rose to go. My uncle had promised to arrange a concert
for the next day but one, and he and I (whom he had presented to them
as a young _virtuoso_) were invited to go and take chocolate with the
sisters that evening.
"'When the time came, we walked slowly and solemnly up the stairs
accordingly. We both felt very queer: somewhat as if we were going
forward to undertake some rather perilous adventure, for which we were
by no means adequately prepared.
"After my uncle, who had carefully prepared himself beforehand, had
spoken much and learnedly about music--(nobody understood a word he
said, neither he himself, nor we others)--after I had burnt my tongue,
three times, terribly with the scalding chocolate smiling at my
tortures with the stoicism of a Scaevola--Lauretta said she would sing
something. Teresina took the guitar tuned it, and struck two or three
handfuls of chords. I had never heard the instrument before, and was
much impressed by the strange, mysterious effect of its hollow
vibrations.
"'Lauretta commenced a note, very _piano_, swelled it out to a ringing
_fortissimo_, and then broke out into a bold warbling _cadenza_,
extending over an octave and a half. I remember the words of the
beginning of her aria:--
"Sento l'amica speme."
"'My blood seemed to pause in my veins! I never had had an idea that
there could be anything like this, and as Lauretta soared on her
bright pinions of song, higher and higher, and as the beams of those
beautiful tones shone brighter and brighter upon me, all the music within
me--dead and dormant hitherto--caught fire, and blazed on high in
glorious and mighty flames.
"'Ah! that was the first time in my life that I ever heard _music_!
Next the sisters sang together, some of those earnest, quiet,
deep-drawn duets of Abbate Steffani'e. Teresina's rich, exquisitely
beautiful contralto stirred the depths of my soul. I could not keep
back my tears, they rolled down my cheeks. My uncle blew his nose a
great deal, and cast reproachful looks at me. It was no use; I couldn't
control myself. This seemed to please the sisters; they asked about my
musical studies. I felt utterly disgusted with all I had done, and
declared, in my enthusiasm, that I had never heard music before.
"'"_Il buon fanciullo!_" said Lauretta, very sweetly and tenderly.
"'When I got home I felt almost out of my mind. I seized all the
_toccatas_ and _fugues_ which I had so laboriously carpentered together
(as well as forty-five Variations on a Thema in Canon, which the
organist had composed for me, and presented to me in a beautifully
written MS.), and shied the whole boiling of them into the fire. I
laughed sardonically as this mass of double counterpoint crackled and
blazed, and went sparkling out into ashes. Then I sat down to the
instrument, and tried, first to imitate the guitar, and then to play,
and next to sing, the melodies which I had heard the sisters execute.
At last, about midnight, my uncle came out of his bedroom crying, "For
the love of heaven stop that caterwauling, be off to your bed, and
let's try to get some sleep," with which he blew out the lights and
left me in the dark. I had nothing for it but obey; but in my dreams I
thought I had solved the secret of song, and was singing the "Sento
l'Amica Speme" in the most exquisite style myself.
"'Next morning my uncle had got together everybody who could play on
string or wind instruments, to a rehearsal in the concert-room, and a
proud man he felt himself to be able to turn out such a fine show of
performers. The rehearsal was anything but a success, however. Lauretta
essayed a grand scena, but we had not got many bars into the recitative
when everything was at sixes and sevens; none of the players had the
slightest idea of accompanying. Lauretta screamed, stormed, wept, with
rage and disgust. The organist was at the piano, and him she attacked
with her bitterest objurgations. He rose from his seat, and walked
slowly, and with much composure, out at the door. The band-master, at
whom she had hurled an "_asino tedesco_" put his violin under his arm,
and cocked his cap martially over one ear; he, too, was making for the
door, his men, unscrewing their mouthpieces, and sticking their bows in
among their strings, preparing to follow him. Only the amateurs were
left, looking at each other, almost with tears in their eyes, the
exciseman saying, "Oh, dear me! how very much I do feel a thing of this
sort!"
"'But all my natural bashfulness had abandoned me. I stopped the
band-master; I entreated and implored him; in the anguish of the moment
I promised I would write him six minuets, with double trios each, for
the county-ball. I succeeded in pacifying him. He went back to his
music-stand; the bandsmen followed his example, and the orchestra was
ready to commence operations once more. All except the organist; his place
at the piano was vacant. I found him strolling--a calm, contemplative
man--up and down in the market-place, by no process whatever to be
prevailed upon to cross the threshold of the concert-room any more.
"'Teresina had been looking on at all this, biting her lips to keep
back her laughter. Lauretta was now just as conciliatory as she had
previously been the contrary. She thanked me most warmly for all I had
done. She asked if I could play the piano, and, ere I knew where I was,
I found myself occupying the organist's vacant place, with the score
before me. Up to this time I had never accompanied a singer, or
directed an orchestra. Teresina sat down beside me, and indicated the
various _tempi_ to me. Lauretta gave me an encouraging "bravo!" now and
then; the orchestra began to understand, and things went better. At the
second rehearsal all was clear, and the sensation the sisters produced
at the concert was indescribable.
"'There were going to be great doings at the Residenz, on the occasion
of the prince's return from abroad, and the sisters were engaged to
sing there; in the meantime they decided on remaining in our little
town, and giving one or two more concerts. The admiration of the
towns-folk for them amounted to a species of insanity. Only old Mdlle.
Meibel would take a reflective pinch out of her pug-dog snuff-box, and
remark that screeching of that sort was not singing. My organist was no
more to be seen, and I by no means regretted his absence. I was the
happiest creature on earth. I sat with the sisters all day long, playing
their accompaniments, and writing out the parts from the scores for the
concerts at the Residenz. Lauretta was my ideal; all her naughty
tempers, her artistic outbreaks of fury, impatience with her
accompanyist, and so forth, I bore like a lamb. I began to learn
Italian, and wrote a _canzonetta_ or two. How I rose to the empyrean
when Lauretta sang my compositions, and even praised them! I often felt
as if I had never thought and written those things, but as if the ideas
streamed out for the first time when she sang them. With Teresina I did
not get on so well. She sang very seldom; didn't seem to take much
interest in me or my doings, and sometimes gave me the impression of
laughing at me behind my back.
"'The time arrived at last when they had to leave us: then it was that
I fully realized what Lauretta had become to me, and how impossible it
was for me to be parted from her. After she had been unusually
_smorfiosa_ with me, she would be kind and caressing, but always in
such a fashion that, although my blood would seethe, the coldness which
I could feel that she brought to bear upon me was sufficient to prevent
me from throwing myself at her feet with passionate avowals of love.
"'I had a pretty fair tenor voice then: it had never had any
cultivation, but it was beginning to improve, and I used to sing, with
Lauretta, numbers of those tender Italian duets whose name is legion.
We were singing one of those duets one day; the time of her departure
was at hand--
"Senza di te, ben mio!
Vivere non poss' io."
"'Who could have resisted this? I threw myself at Lauretta's feet, wild
with despair.
"'She helped me to rise. "Why should we part, dear friend?" she said. I
listened in delighted amazement. She said I had much better go with her
and Teresina to the Residenz. If I meant to devote myself to music
altogether, I should have to quit my little native town some day or
other.
"'Picture to yourself a person who has bidden good-bye to life and
hope, and is falling down some black, fathomless abyss; but, at the
very instant when he expects the crash which is to dash him in pieces,
lo and behold! he is in a beautiful bower of roses, with hundreds of
little many-tinted lights dancing round him, and saying, "Darling!
you're still alive, you see!" These were my sensations at that moment.
To go with them to the Residenz was the one prominent, tangible idea of
my life.
"'I shan't weary you by describing how I set about proving to my uncle
the absolute necessity of my going to the Residenz--no such very great
distance, when all was said. He agreed at last, and said he would go
with me! Here was an unexpected baulk to my little plans. I dared not
tell him I was going with the ladies; but luckily one of his attacks of
bronchitis came to my rescue.
"'I started off in the stage-coach, but got out at the first change of
horses, and waited there for the coming of my goddesses. I had plenty
of money in my pocket, so that I was able to make all my arrangements.
My idea was to escort the ladies on horseback, like a paladin of
Romance; so I managed to hire a steed--not particularly grand to look
at, but, as his owner assured me, a good serviceable animal,--and at
the appointed time I mounted him, and rode out to meet the two
_cantatrices_. Ere long, their little double-seated phæton was seen
coming quietly along. The two sisters were on the front seat, and
behind sat their maid, little fat Gianna, a brown Neapolitan. The
carriage was crammed with all sorts of boxes, band-boxes, portmanteaus,
and so forth, and two pug-dogs, on Gianna's lap, yapped at me as I rode
up.
"Everything went swimmingly till we got to the last stage from the
Residenz, but there my horse was seized with the remarkable idea that
he ought to go home to his stable. A conviction that severe measures
are seldom effectual in such conjunctures induced me to try every
description of mild persuasion that I could think of. The perverse
animal was proof against all my gentle remonstrances. I wanted to go
forward; he wanted to go back. All that I could accomplish in the
circumstances was that, instead of retrograding, he kept describing
circles. Teresina leant out of the carriage, laughing most heartily;
whilst Lauretta put her hands before her eyes and screamed, as if I
were in the utmost danger. I jammed my spurs into the brute's sides,
and, ere I could say Jack Robinson, found myself on the broad of my
back on the turnpike road, with the horse standing over me, his long
neck stretched out, surveying me with an expression of calm derision.
"'I could not get up till the driver got off and helped me. Lauretta,
too, got out, and was weeping and screaming. I had twisted one of my
feet, and couldn't ride any further. What was to be done? The horse was
made fast to the back of the carriage, and I had to squeeze myself
inside, as best I could. Just picture to yourself two well-grown
young women, a fat maid, a couple of dogs, a dozen or so of baskets,
band-boxes, etc., and me in addition, squeezed up in a little two-seated
phaeton! Think of Lauretta's lamentations about the want of room; the
dogs' yapping; the Neapolitan's chattering, and the horrible pain of my
foot, and you will have some idea what a charming position I was in.
Teresina declared she could bear it no longer; the driver pulled up,
and with one bound she was out of the carriage. She loosed my horse,
got on his back, and trotted and curvetted down the road before us. She
certainly looked splendid; the grace and distinction which she
possessed in an eminent degree were more especially conspicuous on
horseback. She made us hand her out her guitar, and, slinging her
bridle over her left arm, she sang Spanish ballads as she rode along,
striking handfuls of chords in accompaniment. Her silk dress fluttered
in shimmering folds, and the white plumes in her hat nodded and
quivered, like airy sprites, in time to the music. Her whole effect was
romantic beyond expression, and I could not take my eyes away from her;
although Lauretta called her absurd, and said she was a silly, forward
girl, and had better take care she didn't meet with an accident.
However, the horse seemed to have altered his tactics--or perhaps he
preferred the lady-singer to the Paladin; at all events, it was not
till we were close to the gates of the Residenz that Teresina clambered
back into the carriage again.
"'Imagine me now deliciously up to my eyes in concerts, operas, and
music of every description, passing my days and hours at the piano,
whilst arias, duets, and I don't know all what, are being studied and
rehearsed. From the total change in my outward man you gather that I am
permeated and inspired by a spirit of might. All the provincial
bashfulness is gone. I sit at the piano, a _maestro_, with the score
before me, conducting my donna's _scenas_. My whole soul and existence
is centred in melody. With the utmost contempt for counterpoint,
I write quantities of _canzonettas_ and _arias_, which Lauretta
sings--only in private, however. Why won't she ever sing anything of mine
at a concert? I can't make this out. Teresina sometimes dawns on my
memory, curvetting with her lyre on her charger, like some incarnation of
music; and, spite of myself, I write loftier and more serious strains
when I think of this. Lauretta, no doubt, sports and plays with the
notes like some fairy-queen. What does she ever attempt in which she
does not succeed? Teresina never attempts a _roulade_; a simple
_appoggiatura_ or so, in the antique style, is the utmost that she
ventures upon; but those long, sustained notes of hers shine through
the dim background, and wonderful spirits arise, and gaze, with their
earnest eyes, deep into the breast. I don't know why mine was so long
before it opened to them.
"'The sisters' benefit-concert came off at length. Lauretta was singing
a great _scena_ of Anfossi's. I was, of course, at the piano as usual.
We had arrived at her final "pause," where her grand _cadenza ad
libitum_ had to come in. It was a question of showing what she really
_could_ do. Nightingale trills went warbling up and down; then came
long holding-notes; then all kinds of florid passages--a regular
_solfeggio_; even _I_ thought the affair was being kept up too long.
Suddenly I felt a breath. Teresina was standing close behind me;
Lauretta was just pulling herself together to begin her long, swelling
harmonica shake, which was to lead back to the _a-tempo_. Some demon
took possession of me. I crashed down the chord of the dominant with
both hands; the orchestra followed me; and there was an end of
Lauretta's _trillo_, just at the supreme moment when it ought to have
set the audience _in furore_.
"'Lauretta, with a glare of fury at me, which went through me like a
two-edged sword, tore her music in pieces, and sent it flying about my
ears; then rushed away like a mad creature, through the orchestra, into
the ante-room. As soon as the _tutti_ was finished, I hastened after
her. She was sobbing and raving. "Don't come near me, you malignant
fiend!" she screamed: "you have blasted my career for ever; how can I
ever look an audience in the face again? You have robbed me of my name,
and fame, and, oh, of my _trillo_! Out of my sight;" she made a rush at
me, but I slipped deftly out of the door. During the _concerto_--which
somebody or other played--Teresina and the Kapellmeister succeeded in
so far pacifying her as to induce her to appear again--but not with me
at the piano--and in the concluding duet, which the sisters sung,
Lauretta did actually introduce the harmonica shake, was tremendously
applauded, and got into the most delightful temper imaginable.
"'I, however, couldn't get over the style in which I had been treated
before so many strangers; and I had quite made up my mind to be off
back to my native town again the following morning. In fact I was
packing up, when Teresina came into my room. When she saw what was
going on, she was thunderstruck. "_You_ going to leave us?" she cried.
I said that after the way in which Lauretta had behaved to me, I could
not possibly stay.
"'"Then the hasty, petulant outburst of a foolish girl, which she is
heartily ashamed of and sorry for, is going to drive you away; where
else could you carry on your artistic life so happily? It rests
entirely with you to cure Lauretta of those tempers of hers. You are
too good to her, and let her have her own way far too much. You have
too high an opinion of her altogether. She has a very fair voice, and
an enormous compass, no doubt. But all those _fioriture_, those
everlasting scales and passages, and nightingale trills of hers, what
are they but dazzling tricks, more like what an acrobat does on the
tight-rope than anything else? Can such things possibly touch the
heart? The harmonica shake, which you wouldn't let her bring in, is a
thing which I detest! it makes me feel quite ill. Then all that
clambering up among the ledger-line notes, isn't it a mere, unnatural
forcing of the proper voice--the real voice--the only voice that
touches the listener? What I admire are the middle and lower registers.
A tone which goes to the heart, a genuine _portamento di voce_, I
prefer to everything else. None of those meaningless _embellimenti_--a
firm, steady, full utterance of the note--something like decision and
accuracy of intonation; that is real singing, and that is how I sing
myself. If you can't bear Lauretta longer, don't forget that there is
Teresina, who is your devoted friend: and you can be my _maestro_ and
composer quite in your own special style. Don't be vexed with me, but
all your florid _canzonettas_ and _arias_ are nothing in comparison
with _the_ one."
"'Teresina sang, in her rich pathetic tones, a simple _canzone_ in
church style which I had written a few days before. Never could I have
imagined that it could ever possibly have sounded like that. Tears of
rapture rolled down my cheeks: I seized her hand, and pressed it to my
lips a thousand times: I vowed that nothing on earth should ever part
us.
"'Lauretta looked upon my alliance with Teresina with angry jealousy,
which she concealed as best she could. I was indispensable to her at
the time; because, clever as her singing was, she couldn't learn
anything new without assistance. She was a wretched hand at reading,
and extremely shaky over her time. Teresina could read everything at
sight, and the accuracy of her time was incomparable. Lauretta's
tempers and caprices never came out in such full force as when she was
being accompanied. The accompaniment never pleased her. She looked upon
it in the light of a necessary evil, she wanted the piano to be barely
audible, always _pianissimo_. She was always dragging and altering the
time, every bar different, just as she happened to take it in her head
at the moment. I set to work to resist this firmly. I combatted those
evil habits of hers; I showed her that there must be a certain energy
about an accompaniment, that breadth of phrasing was one thing, and
meaningless dragging quite another. Teresina backed me up staunchly. I
gave up writing everything but the church style, and gave all the solos
to the contralto voice. Teresina dragooned me pretty smartly, too; but
I didn't mind that. She knew more than Lauretta, and I thought she had
more feeling for German music.
"'When we were in a certain little town in the south of Germany, we met
with an Italian tenor on his way from Milan to Vienna. My ladies were
charmed to meet with a fellow-countryman. He was continually with them.
Teresina was the one whom he chiefly devoted himself to, and, to my no
small disgust, I found myself quite playing second fiddle. One morning,
as I was just going into their room, with a score under my arm, I heard
an animated conversation going on between my ladies and the tenor. My
own name struck my ear, and I listened with might and main. I knew
enough Italian to catch every word that was said. Lauretta was relating
the terrible story of the concert when I cut her out of her shake by
striking my chord too soon.
"'"_Asino tedesco!_" cried the tenor. I felt inclined to go and chuck
the vapouring stage-hero out of the window; but I restrained myself.
Lauretta went on to say that she would have got rid of me on the spot,
but that I had implored her to let me stay, and she had done so, out of
compassion, as I was going to take singing-lessons from her. Teresina
confirmed this, to my no small amazement. "He is a nice boy, enough,"
she added. "He is in love with _me_ just now, and writes all his solos
for the contralto. There is a certain amount of talent in him, if he
could get rid of the stiffness and awkwardness which all Germans have.
I am in hopes I may make a composer of him who may write some good
things for the contralto: there is so little written for it that is
worth very much. He is dreadfully wearisome with his everlasting
sighings and devotion, and torments me fearfully with his compositions,
which are poor enough as yet."
"'"Thank goodness, I am quit of him," cried Lauretta, "You know,
Teresina, how he used to torture me with his _arias_ and _duettos_,"
and she began a duet of mine, which she had highly praised formerly.
Teresina took the second voice, and they both caricatured me most
unmercifully. The tenor laughed till the room re-echoed. I felt a
stream of icy water running down my back, my mind was thoroughly made
up. I slipped back to my own room as quietly as I could. Its windows
looked out into the side-street--the post-office was just over the
way, and the Bamberg coach was drawing up to take in the mail-bags.
The passengers were collecting at the gate, but I had still the best
part of an hour before me. I got my things together as quickly as I
could--magnanimously paid the whole of the hotel bill, and was off to
the coach. As I went along the High Street, I saw my ladies looking out
at the window, with the tenor, at the sound of the horn. But I kept well
out of sight in the background, and pictured to myself, with deep
delight, the crushing effect of the scathing letter which I had left
for them.
"'Here Theodore slowly savoured, with intense gusto, the last drops of
the glowing Eleatic which Edward had poured out for him.
"'"I shouldn't have expected Teresina to have behaved as she did," said
Edward, opening a fresh bottle, and shaking away the drop or two of oil
on the surface like one accustomed to that operation. "I can't forget
the pretty picture of her caracoling along on horseback, singing
Spanish songs."
"'That was her culminating point,' said Theodore. 'I remember as
distinctly as possible the impression that made upon me. I forgot the
pain of my foot. She looked like some creature of a higher sphere. A
moment of that sort makes a tremendous impression upon one sometimes.
Things sometimes put on a form, in an instant, which no lapse of time
can change. If ever, since then, I have been unusually happy in the
subject of some bold, spirited _romanza_, you may be sure I had that
scene, and Teresina, vividly before my mind.'
"'"We mustn't forget the clever Lauretta, either," said Edward. "I vote
that we let bygones be bygones, and drink to both the sisters." Which
they did.
"'Ah!' said Theodore, 'how the perfumes of exquisite Italy breathe upon
one out of this wine. One's blood seems to course through one's veins
with threefold vigour. Oh, why had I to leave that glorious country so
soon!'
"'"So far, though," said Edward, "I see no connection between what you
have been telling me and the picture; so I suppose there is more about
the sisters yet to come. Of course I see that the ladies in the picture
are no other than Lauretta and Teresina."
"'Yes,' said Theodore. 'And my longing sighs for Italy form a
good-enough introduction to what there remains for me to say. A short
time before I had to leave Rome, the year before last, I went for a
little excursion into the country, on horseback. I came to a _locanda_,
where I saw a nice-looking girl, and I thought it would be a good thing
to get her to bring me a flagon of good wine. I drew up at the door in
the shaded alley, the bright sunlight breaking athwart it through the
branches. I heard singing, and a guitar, somewhere near. I listened
attentively, for the voices of the singers affected me strangely; dim
reminiscences stirred within me, but were slow to take definite form. I
got off my horse, and slowly drew nearer to the vine-covered arbour
where the music was going on. The second voice had stopped; the first
was singing a _canzonetta_ alone; the singer was in the middle of an
elaborate _cadenza_, it went warbling up and down, till at last she
began a long holding-note, and then, all at once, a woman's voice broke
out in a fury, with curses, execrations and reproaches. A man was heard
protesting, another man laughing, whilst a second woman's voice joined
in the _mêlée_. Wilder and wilder raged the storm, with true Italian
_rabbia_. At last, just as I came up to the arbour, out flew an
_abbate_, nearly knocking me down. He looked up at me, and I saw that
he was none other than my good friend Signor Ludovico, my regular
news-purveyor, from Rome. "What, in the name of Heaven----" I cried.
"Ah, Signor Maestro! Signor Maestro!" he cried, "save me! rescue me!
protect me from this mad creature--this crocodile, this tiger, this
hyena--this devil of a girl! It is true I was beating the time to that
_canzonetta_ of Anfossi's, and I came in too soon with my down-beat, right
in the middle of her pause-note, and cut her out of her _trillo_. Why did
I look at her eyes, goddess of the infernal regions that she is? The
devil take all pause-notes!"
"'In most unusual excitement I hastened into the arbour, and at the
first glance, recognised Lauretta and Teresina. Lauretta was still
screaming and raging, Teresina talking violently into her face; the
landlord was looking on with a face of amusement, whilst a girl was
putting fresh flasks of wine on the table.
"'The moment that the singers set eyes on me they threw themselves
about my neck and overwhelmed me with the affectionateness of their
reception. "Ah, Signor Teodoro, Signor Teodoro," all our little
differences were forgotten. "This," said Lauretta to the _Abbate_, "is
a composer who has all the grace and melody of the Italians combined
with the science of the Germans." And both the sisters, taking the
words out of each other's mouths, told him all about the happy days we
had spent together, my profound musical knowledge, even as a boy, our
practisings, and the excellence of my compositions. Never had they
really cared to sing anything but works of mine. Presently Teresina
told me she had got an engagement at an important theatre for the next
Carnival, but meant to make it a condition that _I_ should be
commissioned to write at least one tragic opera; since, of course,
_opera seria_ was my real line, etc., etc. Lauretta, again, said it
would be too bad if I didn't follow my special bent for the florid and
sparkling style--for _opera buffa_, in fact: that she had got an
engagement as prima donna in that line, and that, as a matter of
course, nobody but I should write the operas in which she should
appear. You can imagine how strange it felt to be with them again; and
you see, now, that the scene and all the circumstances are exactly
those of Hummel's picture.
"'"But didn't they say anything about the circumstances of your
parting, or that scathing letter of yours?" asked Edward.
"Not a syllable,' said Theodore. 'Neither did I. I had long forgotten
my annoyance, and remembered my affair with the sisters as a mere piece
of fun nothing more. The only thing I did was to tell the _Abbate_ how,
many years ago, a similar misadventure had befallen me, and that in an
aria of Anfossi's too. I incorporated in my story an account of all
that had happened during the time that the sisters and I had spent
together, delivering a swashing side-blow, now and then, just to show
the considerable increment of "calibre" which a few years of artistic
experience had endowed me with. "And," said I in conclusion, "it was a
very lucky thing that I did come in too soon with that down-beat of
mine. No doubt it was fore-ordained from all eternity; and I have
little doubt that, if I hadn't interrupted Lauretta as I did then, I
should have been sitting playing pianoforte accompaniments to this
hour."
"'"But, Signer," said the _Abbate_, "what _maestro_ can lay down laws
to a prima donna? And then, your crime was far more heinous than mine.
You were in a concert-room. I was only in this arbour here, merely
_playing_ the _maestro_. What did it matter about my down-beat? If
those beautiful eyes of hers hadn't bewitched me, I shouldn't have made
an ass of myself as I did." The _Abbate's_ last words worked like
magic. Lauretta's eyes, which had begun to dart angry lightnings,
beamed softly again.
"'We spent that evening together. It was fourteen years since we had
met, and fourteen years cause many changes. Lauretta was by no means as
young as she had been, but she had not lost all her attractiveness.
Teresina had worn better, and still retained her beautiful figure. They
dressed in much the same style as of old, and had all their former
ways: that's to say, their dress and manners were fourteen years
younger than themselves. At my request, Teresina sang some of those
earnest, serious _arias_ which had impressed me so much in early days,
but they did not seem to be quite what my memory had represented them.
And it was the same with Lauretta's singing: though her voice had
fallen off little, either in power or in compass, still it was
different from the singing which lived in my memory as hers; and this
attempt to compare a mental idea with the not altogether satisfactory
reality, untuned me even more than the sisters' behaviour--their
pretended ecstasy, their coarse admiration (which at the same time took
the form of a generous patronage) had done at the beginning. But the
droll little _Abbate_--who was playing the _amoroso_ to both the
sisters at once, in the most sugary manner--and the good wine (of which
we had a fair share) gave me my good humour back at length, so that we
all enjoyed our evening. The sisters invited me, in the most pressing
manner, to go and see them, so that we might talk over the parts I was
to compose for them; however I left Rome without ever seeing them
again.
"'"Still," said Edward, "you have to thank them for awaking the music
within you."
"'Undoubtedly,' answered Theodore, 'and for a quantity of good melodies
into the bargain; but that is exactly the reason why I never should
have seen them again. No doubt every composer can remember some
particular occasion when some powerful impression was made on him,
which time never effaces. The spirit which dwells in music spoke, and
the spirit _en rapport_ with it within the composer awoke at that
creative fiat; it flamed up with might, and could never be extinguished
again. It is certain that all the melodies which we produce under an
impulse of this sort seem to belong only to the singer who cast the
first spark into us. We hear her, and merely write down what she has
sung; but it is the lot of us feeble earthly creatures, clamped to the
dust as we are, to long and strive to bring down whatever we can of the
super-earthly into the wretched little bit of earthly life in which we
are cribbed up. And thus the singer becomes our beloved--perhaps our
wife! The spell is broken; our inward melody, with its message, or
gospel of glory, turns to a squabble about a broken soup-plate, or a
row about an ink-mark on one's new shirt. That composer is a happy man
who never again, in this earthly life, sees Her who, with mystic power,
kindled the music within him. He may rage, and mourn, poor boy! when
his beautiful enchantress has left him; but she has been transformed to
everlasting Music, glorious and divine, which lives on in eternal
beauty and youth; and out of it are born the melodies which are Her
only, and Her again and again. What is she but his highest ideal,
reflected from him on to herself?
"'"Curious, but pretty plausible," said Edward, as the friends,
arm-in-arm, walked out of the Sala Tarone into the street.'"
It was admitted that, if Theodore's story might not satisfy all the
necessary conditions, it came near enough to be passed as
"Serapiontic." Ottmar said, "Your story, dear Theodore, has this
effect, that it brings vividly to mind all your devoted labours at
music. Each of us wished to draw you into a different province of it.
While Lothair thought your instrumental writings your best, I thought
your _forte_ was comic opera. Cyprian wanted you to do 'things
unattempted yet,' by putting music to (what he will now admit were)
poems completely beyond all recognised forms and rules; and you
yourself cared only for the serious ecclesiastical style. Well, as
things stand at present, the _opera tragica_ may probably be
considered, the highest goal at which a composer can aim, and I can't
understand why you haven't set to work at one long ago; you would
surely have turned out something very superior in that line."
"And whose fault is it that I have not?" said Theodore, "but your own,
and Cyprian's, and Lothair's? Could I ever succeed in inducing either
of you to write me a libretto, with all my entreaties?"
"Marvellous fellow!" said Cyprian, "haven't I argued for hours and days
with you about opera-texts? Haven't you rejected the finest ideas, on
the ground that they were not adapted for music? Didn't you insist, at
last, like an extraordinary fellow as you are, that I should regularly
set to work to study music, so as to be able to understand, and comply
with your requirements? So that I should have had to say good-bye to
all idea of writing poetry, seeing that, like all professional writers,
Kapellmeisters, and music-directors, you cleave to the established
musical forms, and won't abandon them by so much as a hair's breadth."
"What I can't understand," said Lothair, "is, why Theodore, with his
command of language and poetical expression, doesn't write librettos
for himself? Why should we have to learn to be musicians, and expend
our poetical powers, merely to produce a sort of block, or lay figure,
for him to give life and motion to? Is it not principally because
composers are usually one-sided people, without enough _general_
education, that they require other folks to help them to do their own
work? Are perfect unity of text and music conceivable, except when poet
and composer are one and the same person?"
"All that sounds astonishingly plausible," said Theodore, "and yet it
is utterly and completely untrue. I maintain that it is wholly
impossible that any one person can write a work, the words and the
music of which shall both be excellent."
"You composers," said Lothair, "get that idea into your heads either
because you are absurdly unenergetic, or constitutionally indolent. The
notion of having to go through the labour of writing the words before
you can set to work at the music is so disagreeable to you that you
can't bring yourselves to face it; but my belief is that, to a really
inspired composer, the words and the music would occur simultaneously."
"You are rather driving me into a corner," said Theodore, "so instead
of carrying on this argument, I shall ask you to let me read you a
dialogue about the necessary conditions, or essentials of opera, which
I wrote several years ago that eventful period which we have passed
through was then only beginning. I thought my artistic existence
seriously menaced, and I fell into a state of despondency, which was
probably partly the result of bad health. At this time I made a
Serapiontic friend, who had abandoned the pen for the sword. He cheered
me in my despondency, and forced me to throw myself into the full
current of the events of that stirring time." Without further
introduction, Theodore at once began:--
"THE POET AND THE COMPOSER.
"The enemy was before the gates. Heavy guns were thundering in every
direction, and shells were hurtling through the air; the people of the
town were running, with white faces, into their houses, and the empty
streets rang to the tramp of the cavalry patrols that were cantering
along through them, and driving, with threats and curses, such of the
soldiers as were loitering, or had fallen out of the ranks from any
cause, forward into the trenches. But Ludwig sat on, in his back room,
sunk and lost in the lovely, glorious vision-world which had opened
upon him at his piano. For he had just completed a symphony, in which
he had tried to write down, in notes to be seen and read, what he had
heard and seen within him; a work which, like Beethoven's colossal ones
in that kind, should tell, in heavenly language, of the glorious
wonders of that far-off, romantic realm where life is all unspeakable,
blissful, longing. Like _his_ marvellous creations, it was to
come from that far-off realm, into this little, arid, thirsty world of
ours, and, with beautiful, syren-accents, lure away from it those who
should list, and give ear to its charming. But the landlady came in and
rated him for sitting at his piano in that time of danger and distress;
asking him if he meant to stay in his garret and be shot. At first he
didn't understand what the woman was talking about, till a fragment of
a shell knocked a piece of the roof off, and the broken panes of the
window went clattering down upon the floor. Then the landlady ran
down-stairs weeping and screaming; and Ludwig, taking his most precious
possession, the score of his symphony, under his arm, hastened after
her to the cellar. The inhabitants of the house were all assembled
there. In an access of liberality very unusual with him, the wine-shop
keeper, who occupied the lower story, had 'stood' a dozen or so of his
best wine; whilst the women, in fear and trembling, brought numerous
tit-bits in their work-baskets. People ate and drank, and quickly
passed from their condition of exaltation and excitement to that
confidential frame of mind in which neighbour, drawing close to
neighbour, seeks, and thinks he finds security; and, so to say, all the
petty, artificial _pas_ which we have been taught by conventionality
are whelmed and merged in the great colossal waltz-whirl, to which the
iron hand of destiny beats the resistless measure. The trouble and
danger--the risk to life and limb--were forgotten; cheerful
conversation was the order of the day; animated lips uttered brilliant
speeches, and fellow-lodgers, who barely touched a hat to each other at
ordinary times as they met on the stairs, were seated side by side,
confiding to each other their most confidential affairs.
"The firing began to slacken a good deal, and there was talk of going
up-stairs again, as the streets seemed to be getting pretty safe. An
ex-Militaire, who was present, went further; and, after a few
instructive observations concerning the system of fortification
practised by the Romans, and the effect of the catapult (with a passing
allusion or two to Vauban, and more modern times), was just proving to
us that we had no cause for the slightest uneasiness, because the house
was completely out of the line of fire, when a shot sent the bricks of
the cellar-ventilator rattling down about our ears. No one was hurt,
however; and, as the Militaire jumped, with a brimming bumper in his
hand, on to the table (which the falling bricks had cleared of the
bottles), and defied any other shot to trouble us, we were all quite
reassured at once; and this proved to be our last scare. The night
passed away quietly, and, in the morning, we found that the troops had
moved off to occupy another position, abandoning the town to the enemy.
On leaving the cellar, we found the enemy's cavalry scouring the
streets, and a placard posted up guaranteeing that the townsfolk and
their property should not be molested.
"Ludwig joined the throng, eager to see the new spectacle, which was
watching the arrival of the enemy's commander-in-chief, who was coming
in at the gate, with a pompous fanfare of trumpets, surrounded by a
brilliant escort. Scarcely could he believe his eyes when he saw his
old college-friend Ferdinand among the staff, in a quiet-looking
uniform, with his left arm in a sling, curvetting close past him on a
beautiful sorrel charger. 'It was he--it was really and truly himself
and no other!' Ludwig cried involuntarily. He couldn't overtake him,
his horse was going too fast, and Ludwig hastened, full of thought,
back to his room. But he couldn't get on with any work; he could think
of nothing but his old friend, whom he had not seen for years; and the
happy days of youth which they had spent together rose to his memory
bright and clear. At that time Ferdinand had never shown any turn for
soldiering: he was devoted to the Muses, and had evinced his poetic
vocation in many a striking poem; so that this transformation was all
the more incomprehensible; and Ludwig burned with anxiety to speak with
him, though he had no notion where or how he should find him. The
bustle and movement in the streets increased; a considerable portion of
the enemy's forces, with the Allied Princes at their head, passed
through the town, as a halt was to be made in the neighbourhood for a
day or two; and the greater the crowd about headquarters the less
chance there seemed of encountering Ferdinand. But suddenly, in an
out-of-the-way _café_, where Ludwig was in the habit of going for his
frugal dinner, Ferdinand came up to him with a cry of delight.
"Ludwig was silent, for a certain feeling of discomfort embittered, for
him, this longed-for meeting. It was, as it often is in dreams, when,
just as we are going to put our arms about people whom we love, they
suddenly change into something else, and the whole thing becomes a
mockery, Here was the gentle son of the Muses, the writer of many a
romantic lay which Ludwig had clothed in music, in a nodding plume,
with a clanking sword at his side, and even his voice transformed to a
harsh, rough tone of command. Ludwig's gloomy glance rested on the
wounded arm, and upon the decoration, the cross of honour, on his
breast. But Ferdinand put his arm round him and pressed him to his
side.
"'I know what you are thinking,' he said; 'I understand what you feel
at this meeting of ours. But the Fatherland called me; I could not
hesitate to obey. My hand, which had only wielded the pen, took up the
sword, with the joy, with the enthusiasm, which the holy cause has
kindled in every breast which is not stamped with the seal of
cowardice. I have given some of my blood already; and the mere accident
that this happened under the Prince's eyes has gained me this cross.
But, believe me, Ludwig, the strings which vibrated in me of old, and
whose tones have so often spoken to you, are all whole and uninjured
still; and many a night, when, after some fierce engagement, the
troopers have been sleeping round the fire of the bivouac on some
lonely picquet, I have written poems which have elevated me and
inspired me in my glorious duty of fighting for Honour and Freedom.'
"Ludwig's heart opened at these words; and when Ferdinand went with him
into a small private room, and took off his sword and helmet, he felt
as if his friend had only been dressed to act a part, and had taken off
his stage-costume.
"As they dined and talked over the old days they began to feel as if
they had only parted yesterday. Ferdinand asked what Ludwig had been
composing lately, and was much astonished to learn that he had never
written an opera, because he never had been able to meet with a
libretto to his satisfaction--one that could inspire him with music.
"'I can't understand,' said Ferdinand, 'why you haven't written a
Libretto long ago yourself. You have a very vivid imagination, and a
fine command of language.'
"_Ludwig_. 'Yes, I have imagination enough to invent plenty of good
plots. Indeed, often, when at night a slight headache keeps me in that
dreamy condition which is like a struggle between sleeping and waking,
I not only think of splendid subjects for operas, but see and hear them
being performed, to my own music. But, so far as the faculty of
retaining them and writing them down is concerned, my belief is that I
am wholly without it. And in fact it is scarcely to be expected of us
composers that we should acquire that technical, mechanical skill
(which is necessary to success in every art, and only comes by constant
perseverance and long practice) which would enable us to write our own
librettos. But even if I had the skill to write out a plot, properly
arranged in lines, scenes, etc., I scarcely think I should set to work
to do it for myself.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'But then nobody could so thoroughly understand your
special musical tendencies as yourself.'
"_Ludwig_. 'That, I daresay, may be true enough. Still, I can't help
thinking that a composer who should sit down to put the idea of a plot,
which had occurred to him, into the words would be something like a
painter who should be called upon to make a minute etching, or a
line-engraving, of his picture before setting to work to draw it and
colour it.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'You mean that the necessary fire would smoulder out
during the process of versifying?'
"_Ludwig_. 'I think it would. My poetry would seem trashy, to myself;
something like the cases of rockets which had fallen down, charred and
empty, after rushing all resplendent up to the skies. To me it appears
that in no art so much as in music is it so essential that the entirety
of the subject involved, with all its parts, down to the minutest
detail, should be grasped by the mind at _first_, in its earliest,
glowing outburst; because in no other is subsequent polishing and
altering so hurtful. I am convinced, by my own experience, that the
melody which comes to you, as at the wave of an enchanter's wand, the
first time you read the words of a poem, is always the best--nay,
probably the only really _right_ one (for that particular composer at
all events), to put to it. It would be impossible for a composer not to
think of the music called for by the situation, while he was writing
down the words. Indeed he would be thinking so much of _it_ that he
could not give the necessary attention to the words, and if he forced
himself to do so the river of the music would soon dry up, as if sucked
in by thirsty sands. Nay, to express my meaning more clearly, I will
say that, at the moment of his musical inspiration, all _words_, all
verbal expressions, would appear insufficient to him, nay flat, and
miserably inadequate; and it would be necessary for him to come down to
a lower level, to go, like a beggar asking for alms, in quest of those
words, necessities of the lower requirements of his existence. Would
not his wings soon be paralysed, like a caged eagle's, so that he would
try to soar sunwards in vain?'
"_Ferdinand_. 'One listens to all this, of course; but do you know, my
dear friend, that what you say does not so much convince me as it seems
to indicate your own _personal_ repugnance to working your way,
laboriously, through all the necessary _scenas_, _arias_, _duettos_,
etc., till you get to the point of composing the music.'
"_Ludwig_. 'Perhaps; but I renew an old reproach. Why, in the days when
you and I were living in such constant intimacy, would you never write
me a libretto, eagerly as I begged you to do so?'
"_Ferdinand_. 'Because I think it the most thankless labour imaginable.
You must allow that no demands could be more exacting than those which
you composers make upon us; and if you say that a musician can't be
expected to acquire the technical skill which the mechanical part of
poetry-writing demands, I, again, think that it is too much to expect
of a poet that he should be continually harassing himself about the
precise structure of your _terzettes_, _quartettes_, _finales_, etc.,
so as not to run the risk of transgressing against some of those forms,
which you look upon--Heaven knows why--as so many matters fixed and
established for ever and ever, like the laws of the Medes and Persians.
After we have expended our best efforts with extremity of mental
tension, in trying to apprehend all the situations of our story in a
true poetical spirit, and to express them in the most eloquent
language, and the smoothest and most finished versification, it is
quite terrible how you run your pens through our finest lines, in the
most relentless manner, and spoil our happiest ideas and expressions,
by inverting them, or altering them, or drowning them in the music. I
say this merely with reference to the uselessness of spending time and
labour on elaborate finish. But then, many admirable plots, which have
occurred to us in our poetic inspiration, and which we bring to you,
all pride, expecting you to be delighted with them, you reject in a
moment, as being unsuitable, and unworthy to be clothed in music. But
this must often be sheer caprice, or I don't know what else it can be;
because you often set to work upon texts which are absolutely wretched
and----'
"_Ludwig_. 'Stop a moment, my dear friend! Of course there are
composers who have as little idea of music as many rhyme-spinners have
of poetry, and _they_ have often put notes to plots which really are
wretched, in all respects. But real composers, who live and move and
have their being in true, glorious, heavenly _Music_, always choose
poetic texts.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'Do you say so of Mozart?'
"_Ludwig_. 'Mozart--however paradoxical it may appear to you--never
chose any but poetic texts for his classical operas. But, leaving that
on one side for the moment, my opinion is that it is always quite easy
to know what sort of plot is adapted for an opera, so that the poet
need never be in any danger of making any mistake about it.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'I must confess I never have really gone into this: and
indeed I know so little about music that I don't suppose it would have
been of much consequence if I had.'
"_Ludwig_. 'If by the expression "knowing about music" you mean being
thoroughly versed in the so-called "school routine" of music, there is
no necessity for your being that, to be able to know what composers
require. It is quite easy, altogether apart from the school routine, so
to comprehend, and have within one, the true essence of music as to be,
in this sense, a much better musician than a person who, after studying
the whole, extensive school-routine in the sweat of his forehead, and
labouring through all its manifold, intricate mazes and labyrinths,
worships its lifeless rules and regulations as a self-manufactured
Fetish, in place of the living Spirit: and whom this Idol-cult excludes
from the happiness of the higher realm of bliss.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'Then you think the poet might enter into this inner
sanctum without the preliminary initiation of the "school"?'
"_Ludwig_. 'I do, certainly. And I say that, in that far-off realm
which we often feel,--so dimly, but so unmistakeably,--to be so close
about us, whence marvellous voices sound to us, awakening all the tones
which are sleeping in our hearts, cabined, cribbed, confined, so that
those tones, awakened and set free, dart aloft in fiery streams,
gladsome and happy, and we taste of the bliss of that paradise whence
the voices come--I say that, in that far-off realm, the Poet and the
Musician are intimately-allied members of one and the same Church: for
the "secret" of poetry and of music is one and the same, and opens to
both the portals of the Inner Sanctuary.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'I hear my dear old Ludwig trying to formulate the laws
of art in dim and mystic phrases; and I must say, that the gulf which
seemed to lie between poet and composer, begins to look much narrower
than it did.'
"_Ludwig_. 'Let me try to express my idea about the true essentials of
Opera in as few words as possible. A proper opera, in my opinion, is
one in which the music springs directly out of the poem, as a necessary
sequence, or consequence.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'I don't quite understand that, as yet.'
"_Ludwig_. 'Is not music the mysterious language of a higher
spirit-realm, whose wondrous accents make their way into our souls,
awaking in them a higher Intensivity of life? All passions contend
together, shimmering in bright armour, and then merge and sink into an
ineffable longing which fills our being. This is the effect (not, perhaps,
to be more clearly expressed in words) of _Instrumental_ music. But Music,
to enter wholly into our lives, must take those visions of hers which she
thus brings with her, and, clothing them in words and actions, speak to
us of _particular_ passions and events. Very well! Can the vulgar and
the common-place be spoken of in those accents of glory? Can Music tell
us of anything other than the wonders and the mysteries of that realm
from whence she comes to us with those magic tones of hers? Let the
poet equip himself for a bold flight into the land of romance. There
he will find the Marvellous, which it is for him to bring into this
work-a-day world, so living and glowing in brilliant colouring that we
accept it as true without hesitation. So that--as if carried out of
this arid every-day life in some blissful dream--we go wandering along
the flowery paths of that happy country, and, forgetting everything
else for the time, understand its language--which is what the mighty
voice of Music speaks.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'Then it is the Romantic Opera, with its fairies and
spirits, its prodigies and transformations, that you would adhere to,
exclusively?'
"_Ludwig_. 'I certainly think the Romantic Opera the only perfect kind,
because it is only in the realm of the Romantic that music is at home.
Of course you will understand that I profoundly despise that miserable
class of productions in which silly, _un_spiritual spirits appear, and
where wonders are heaped upon wonders, without rhyme or reason, merely
for the delectation of the _eyes_ of the musical groundlings. It is
only a poet of true genius who can write the book of a proper Romantic
Opera; for none other can bring the wonders of the Spirits-World into
this life of ours. On his wings we soar across the gulf which divides
us from it. We grow to feel at home in that strange land; we give
belief to the marvels which, as necessary results of the influence of
higher natures on our personality, we see taking place; and we
comprehend all the powerful incidents and situations which fill us with
awe and horror, and also with the highest rapture. It is, in one word,
the magical power of Poetical Truth which the poet who would represent
those marvels must have at his command; for it is that alone which can
carry us away: and a mere collection of meaningless fairies, who (as is
the case in so many productions of the kind) are introduced only to
dance about the _pagliasso_ in flesh-coloured skin-tights,--foolish
absurdities as they are,--will always leave us indifferent and
uninterested. In an opera the effect produced upon us by the influence
of higher beings should take place _visibly_, so as to display before
our eyes a romantic life, or condition of existence, in which the
_language_, too, is more highly potentiated; or rather, is derived from
that distant realm: in other words, is _sung music_: ay! where the
scenes and incidents, too, hovering and soaring about in grand and
beautiful tones, and masses of tones, seize us and carry us away with
irresistible might. It is in this way that, as I said before, the music
ought to take its rise and origin straight out of the poem, as a
necessary sequence, or consequence.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'Now I quite understand you; and I think, at once, of
Tasso and Ariosto. Still, it seems to me, it would be no easy matter to
write a musical drama as you would postulate it.'
"_Ludwig_. 'It is work for a real romantic poet, of true genius. Think
of the splendid Gozzi! in his dramatic legends he has completely
fulfilled the conditions which I have laid down as essential for the
poet of opera, and I cannot understand why this rich mine of
magnificent opera-plots has been so little drawn upon, hitherto.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'I remember being greatly delighted with Gozzi, when I
read him some years ago; though, of course, I did not then look at him
from your point of view.'
"_Ludwig_. 'One of the best of his tales is "The Raven." A certain King
Millo, of Frattombrosa, cares for nothing but the chase. One day in the
forest he sees a splendid raven, and he sends an arrow through its
heart. The raven falls upon a monumental tomb of the whitest marble,
which there is there under the trees, besprinkling it with his blood.
On this, the forest is shaken, as if by an earthquake; and a terrible
monster comes stalking out of a cave, and thunders forth a curse upon
Millo, in the following terms:--
"Findest thou not a fair woman,
White as this monument's marble,
Red as the raven's heart's blood,
Black as the night of his plumes,
Perish in raving madness."
"'All attempts to discover such a woman are fruitless. But the king's
brother, Gennaro, who is devoted to him, vows that he will never rest
till he finds this woman, who is to restore his brother's reason. He
traverses land and sea; till at last, counselled by an old man versed
in necromancy, he discovers Armilla, daughter of the mighty sorcerer
Norand. White is her skin like the monument's marble, red like the
raven's blood; and black as his plumes are her hair and eyebrows. He
succeeds in carrying her off, and after many adventures, they reach the
shores of Frattombrosa in safety. As he lands on the beach, chance
places in his possession a magnificent charger, and a falcon endowed
with extraordinary powers. He is filled with joy that he is enabled to
restore his brother's reason, and also to have two such acceptable
gifts to offer him. He lies down to rest in a pavilion which has been
prepared for him under a tree. Then two doves come and sit in the
branches, and begin to talk:--
"'"Woe! Woe to Gennaro! Well had he never been born; the falcon will
peck out his brother's eyes--but if he giveth it not, or if he telleth
what he hath heard, he will turn to stone; if his brother mounteth the
horse, it will instantly kill him--but if he giveth it not, or telleth
what he hath heard, he will turn to stone; if his brother weddeth
Armilla, a monster will come on the wedding-night, and tear him limb
from limb but if Gennaro withholdeth Armilla, or telleth what he hath
heard, he will turn to stone!
"'"Woe! Woe to Gennaro! Well had he never been born!"
"'Norand appears, and confirms what the doves have said. It is the
punishment--the penalty, for having carried Armilla away.
"'As soon as Millo sets eyes on Armilla, his madness departs. The horse
and the hawk are brought, and the king is charmed with his brother's
affection in bringing him presents so much to his mind. Gennaro brings
the hawk, but ere his brother can take it, he cuts off its head. Thus
Millo's eyes are saved; and just as Millo is setting foot in the
stirrup to mount the horse, Gennaro draws his sword and hews off its
fore-legs with one stroke. Millo thinks it is love-madness which causes
Gennaro's conduct, and Armilla confirms this opinion, as Gennaro's
sighs and tears, and his confusion and inexplicable behaviour have for
some time made her suspect him of being secretly in love with her. She
assures the king of her entire devotion to him; of which Gennaro had
laid the foundation, by his warm and touching accounts of his brother
on the journey. To cast aside all suspicion, she begs that the marriage
may be hurried on as much as possible; and that is accordingly done.
Gennaro, who sees his brother's last hours at hand, is in despair at
being so misjudged; and yet, a terrible fate awaits him if a word of
explanation crosses his lips. But he determines to save his brother, at
whatever cost, and makes his way in the night, by a subterranean
passage, to his sleeping chamber. A terrible dragon appears, breathing
flames and fire. Gennaro attacks it; but his blows have no effect; the
monster is nearing the sleeping chamber. In his desperation he delivers
a tremendous two-handed stroke at the creature, and this cleaves
through the door of the chamber. Millo comes out, and, as the monster
has disappeared, he sees in his brother a traitor urged to fratricide
by the madness of unhallowed passion. Gennaro cannot vindicate himself.
The guards are summoned, and he is disarmed and thrown into a dungeon.
He is doomed to die, but begs that he may speak with his brother first.
Millo consents. Gennaro recalls to his memory the tender affection
which has always subsisted between them; but when he asks if his
brother can truly suppose him capable of his murder, Millo calls for
proofs of his innocence; and then, in his agony, Gennaro divulges the
terrible prophecies of the doves and Norand. But no sooner have the
words been spoken than Gennaro is turned to a marble statue. On this
Millo, in his grief and remorse, determines that he never will leave
the statue's side, and will die at its feet in contrition and sorrow.
At this juncture Norand appears, and says, "In the eternal Book of
Destiny were written the raven's death, the curse on you, and the
carrying away of Armilla. One thing, and one alone, will bring your
brother back to life--but it is a terrible deed. Let Armilla be slain
at the statue's side, by this dagger; and when the cold marble is
besprinkled with her heart's blood, it will warm into life. If you have
courage to kill her, do it. Weep, weep, and lament! even as do I!" He
vanishes. Armilla wrings from the unfortunate Millo the purport of
Norand's terrible disclosure. Millo quits her in despair, and, filled
with horror and grief, careless of living longer, she stabs herself
with the dagger. As soon as her blood besprinkles the statue Gennaro
comes back to life. Millo comes: he sees his brother alive, and his
bride lying slain. In his despair he is going to stab himself with the
dagger; but the gloomy dungeon changes to a great, illuminated hall;
Norand appears: all the mysterious decrees of fate are accomplished,
all the sorrow is past. Norand touches Armilla. She comes back to life,
and everything ends happily.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'Yes; I remember this fine, imaginative tale quite well,
and the impression it made upon me. You are quite right; this is an
instance in which the Marvellous takes the form of an essential
element, and has so much poetical verity that we believe it without
hesitation. Millo's killing of the raven is what knocks at the brazen
gates of the Spirit-Realm; on that they fly open with a clash, and the
spirits come swooping in upon the human life, and immesh the mortals in
the web of strange, mysterious destiny which impends over them.'
"_Ludwig_. 'Exactly; and notice the grand, powerful situations which
the poet has evolved from this contest with the spirit-world. Gennaro's
self-sacrifice; Armilla's deed of heroism; there is a grandeur in them
which our "moral" playwrights, in their rummagings among the
paltrinesses of every-day life (like sweepings of drawing-rooms thrown
out into the dust-bin) haven't the slightest idea of; and then the
comic parts for the masks are must effectively woven in.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'Yes it is only in the Romantic Drama that the comic
element blends on such perfectly equal terms with the tragic that they
contribute with equality to the general effect.'
"_Ludwig_. Even common opera-manufacturers have got hold of some dim
notion of that, for it is thence that the so-called Comic-Heroic operas
take their origin--productions in which the Heroic is often exceedingly
Comic, and the Comic is so far Heroic that it most heroically ignores
all the requirements of taste and propriety.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'According to your notion of the essentials of opera, we
can't congratulate ourselves on possessing very many.'
"_Ludwig_. 'No; most so-called operas are only plays with singing
added; and the utter absence of dramatic effect, which is ascribed
sometimes to the music, sometimes to the plot or to the words, is
really due to the lifelessness of the mass of scenes, tacked together
without inward connection or poetical truthfulness, and incapable of
kindling music into life. The composer has often to work between the
lines, as it were, on his own account, and the wretched words meander
along in a side-channel, not to be brought into the musical current by
any conceivable means. In such a case the music may be good enough;
that is,--without having depth enough to carry away the listener with
magic power, it may give a certain amount of pleasure, like a
glittering play of gay colours. Then the opera is merely a concert,
given on a stage, with dresses and scenery.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'As it is the Romantic Opera, in its strictest sense,
which is the only species that you recognise as opera, properly
so-called, how about musical Tragedies, and Comic Operas in modern
costume?--you repudiate them altogether, I presume.'
"_Ludwig_. 'Oh, no; not at all. In most of the older Tragic
Operas--such as are not written nowadays, unfortunately (either as
regards plots or music)--what so powerfully sways the audience is the
heroic nature of the action, and the inward strength of the characters
and situations. That dark mysterious power which rules, controls, and
disposes of Gods and Men, we see stalking along visibly before our
eyes; we hear the eternal, irreversible, immutable decrees of Fate, to
which the Gods themselves have to submit, pronounced and formulated
aloud, in awful and mysterious tones. From Tragic matter of this sort
the Fantastic element is perforce excluded; but a loftier language--in
the wondrous accents of Music--has to be employed to depict that
intercourse with the Gods which stirs the Mortals to a higher life, and
to God-like achievements. Were not the ancient tragedies musically
declaimed, by the way?--and did not that prove clearly the necessity
for a higher medium of expression than ordinary language? The musical
tragedies have inspired composers of genius in a quite special
way--with a lofty, I might almost say, a _saintly_ style of writing. It
is as if we mortals were wafted upwards, in some condition of mystic
consecration, on the pinions of the tones of the golden harps of the
Cherubim and Seraphim, to the realms of light, where we learn the
mystery of our existence. What I would say, Ferdinand, is to point out
the close relationship that there is between the old Church Style and
the Tragic Opera, whence the old writers have framed a glorious style
of their own, of which modern composers have no idea--not even
excepting Spontini, with all his wealth and exuberance of fancy. The
glorious Gluck, who stands apart by himself, a hero, I need say nothing
about; but as an instance how the grand tragic style has influenced far
inferior talents, think of the chorus of the Priests of Night in
Piccini's "Dido."'
"_Ferdinand_. 'This is just as it used to be in the golden old days
when we were together. As you talk in that inspired sort of way of your
Art, you raise me up to the level of ideas which otherwise I never
should have dreamt of; and, I assure you, at this moment I consider
that I really know a good deal about music. In fact, I think no
passable line of poetry would occur to me without its appropriate
clothing of music.'
"_Ludwig_. 'Is not this the true inspiration of the poet of opera? I
maintain that he should "think" the music belonging to his lines just
as much>as the composer does; and that the only thing which
differentiates the one from the other is the distinct recognition of
particular melodies, and of particular qualities and peculiarities of
the Bounds of instruments which are co-operating and involved in the
effects; in fact, the easy, habitual command over the "Inner Kingdom"
of Music. But I have still to tell you my ideas about _Opera Buffa_.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'You will scarcely have a good word to say for that,
particularly if it is in modern costume.'
"_Ludwig_. 'On the contrary, I consider that it is just when it is in
the costume of the day that not only is it at its best, but that it is
the only genuine form of _opera buffa_ in the sense in which the
mobile, mercurial, excitable Italians have understood it and written
it. In this case it is the Fantastic element which is _paramount_,
proceeding partly from the quips of individual characters, partly from
the _bizarre_ play of chance. The Fantastic element comes pop into our
everyday lives, and turns everything topsy-turvy. One ought to have to
say, "Yes; that really _is_ Brown (or Jones, or Robinson) in that
snuff-coloured Sunday coat of his with the brass buttons, which we all
know so well. And what in the name of fortune 's the fellow going on
like _that_ for?" Picture to yourself some respectable family--uncles,
aunts, and so forth--and a little languishing daughter; throw in two or
three students, be-singing their cousin's eyes and playing the guitar
under the windows. Let the tricksy sprite Puck pop suddenly into the
middle of them! The result you may imagine. All the fat's in the fire;
everything is at sixes and sevens; everybody goes darting in every
direction, gesticulating and grimacing, skipping and posturing, as if a
whole hive of bees were let loose in their bonnets. Some strange planet
rules the ascendant; the nets of haphazard are set, and will catch the
most respectable folk if their noses happen to be just the least bit
longer than the average. I consider that the very essence of _opera
buffa_ lies in this incursion of the Fanciful-Fantastic, the
preposterous and absurd, into actual, everyday life, and the
incongruities that result. And it is just the power of catching hold of
this fanciful-fantastic element--which generally lies rather far off
and out of the way--and bringing it, with vividness, into everyday
life, which makes the acting of Italian buffo actors so inimitable.
They catch the indications given by the author, and their acting
clothes the skeleton which he has sketched with flesh and colour.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'I think I follow you quite. What you mean is, that in
the _opera buffa_ the Fantastic element takes the place of the Romantic
(which, in general terms, you consider an essential principle of
opera), and the art of the poet has to consist in this--that the
characters must appear, not only with much finish, and standing out in
_alto-relievo_, as well as being poetically true, but so clearly drawn
as well from everyday life, and so full of individual character, that
the spectator at once says, "Look there! that's my next-door neighbour,
whom I say 'How are you?' to every day. And that's the student who goes
to his lectures every morning, and sighs so tremendously as he passes
his cousin's window," etc., etc. And then all these people are to be
subjected to the spell of some Puck, in such fashion that what they set
to work to do under that influence, and all that happens to them, are
to affect us as if we were there on the spot, sharing their experiences
with them, under the influence of the same spell.'
"_Ludwig_. 'Exactly. And I scarcely need say that, according to my
principle, music adapts itself well to _opera buffa_, and that in so
adapting itself there results a certain special style which makes a
special impression of its own on the hearer.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'Do you think music can express all the shades of the
Comic?'
"_Ludwig_. 'I am quite sure it can; clever artists have proved it
scores of times. For instance, music can express the most delicate and
delightful Irony. That is the predominating element in Mozart's
glorious "Cosi fan tutte."'
"_Ferdinand_. That, by the way, leads me to the remark that, according
to your principle, the so-much disparaged text of that work is really
highly suitable for an opera.'
"_Ludwig_. 'That is exactly what I was thinking of when I said, a
little while ago, that for his classic operas Mozart always chose
really suitable texts, for "Le Nozze di Figaro" is more a Comedy in
Music than a true Opera. The nefarious attempt to turn pathetic dramas
into operas can never come to anything; our "Orphan Hospitals,"
"Oculists," and so forth, are sure to be soon forgotten. And what could
have been more miserable and opposed to the true spirit of opera than
all that series of _vaudeilles_ of Dittersdorf's? But on the other hand
I call such works as "The Sunday-Child" and "The Sisters of Prague"
admirable. One might style them true German _opere buffe_.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'They have always amused me greatly, at all events, when
decently given; and I have always thought of what Tieck makes his
"poet" say to the public in his "Puss in Boots": "If you want to enjoy
this thoroughly, you must divest yourself of whatever you may have
attained in the shape of cultivation and learning, and become wholly as
little children, so as to enjoy it as such."'
"_Ludwig_. 'Unfortunately those words, like many others of the kind,
fell upon stony ground, and could take no root. But the _vox populi_,
which is generally the _vox Dei_ in theatrical matters, has drowned the
few isolated sighs and groans which super-delicate and sensitive people
have given vent to over the sad untruthfulness and tastelessness of
those works--"trifling," according to their ideas. And there are
instances on record of some of those very people who, in the height of
their calm, contemptuous, aristocratic impassibility and supercilious
scorn of the whole thing, have been so carried away by the infection of
the roars of laughter of the "baser" folk about them that they have
burst out laughing in the most deplorable way themselves, declaring
that they had no idea what they were laughing at.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'Wouldn't Tieck, if he had chosen, have written splendid
opera plots, according to your definition of them?'
"_Ludwig_. 'No doubt, being a true romantic poet; and I remember I did
once think of writing music to a plot of his. But though the subject
was well adapted for music, the work was too diffuse and lengthy; not
concentrated enough. It was called "The Monster of the Enchanted
Forest," if I remember rightly.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'That reminds me of another difficulty which we meet with
in writing for you composers: I mean the extraordinary brevity and
conciseness which you insist upon. All our efforts to portray this or
that situation or burst of passion in properly descriptive language are
so much wasted labour. You will have the whole affair comprised in a
line or two; and even these few lines you twist about and turn
upside-down just as you take it in your heads.'
"_Ludwig_. 'I think the writer of the words of an opera ought to be
something like a scene painter, and paint his picture correctly as
regards the drawing, but in broad, powerful lines; then the music will
be what will make it appear in proper light and shade, and in correct
perspective, so that it shall have a proper effect of life, and what
seemed only meaningless dashes of colour prove to be forms instinct
with meaning, standing out prominently in relief.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'So that what we have to do is to give you a sketch
merely, not a finished poem?'
"_Ludwig_. 'No, no; that is not what I mean at all! It is scarcely
necessary to say that the poet of opera must observe, as regards the
arrangement, the disposition, of the whole, all the rules essential to
dramatic composition; but what he has to take special care for is to so
order his scenes that the subject-matter may unfold itself, clearly and
intelligibly, to the _eyes_ of the spectator: who ought to be able to
understand what is going on from what he sees taking place, almost
without catching any of the words. No dramatic poem so absolutely
demands this sort of distinctness as the opera-text, for not only is it
more difficult to distinguish words when they are sung, (however
distinctly,) than when they are spoken, but the music tends to carry
the audience into distant regions, and it is necessary that the
attention should be kept directed to the particular point whore the
action is concentrated, _pro tempore_. Then as regards the words, the
composer likes them best when they express the passion, or situation,
to which they refer, _vigorously_ and _concisely_. There is no occasion
for flowery diction, and, above all, there should be no imagery, no
similes.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'Then how about Metastasio, with his exuberance of
similes?'
"_Ludwig_. 'Yes; he had the strange idea that the composer,
particularly in arias, must always have his imagination stirred up by
some poetical comparison. Hence his oft-repeated openings such as "Come
una Tortorella," etc., or "Come Spume in Tempesta," etc.: and in fact,
the cooing of doves and the roar of the sea have often made their
appearance--in the accompaniment, at all events.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'But, while we avoid flowery language, are we to be
allowed any sort of elaboration of interesting situations? For
instance: the young hero sets off to the battle, and bids adieu to
his aged father, the old king, whose country is trembling in the
grasp of a victorious usurper. Or some terrible fate severs a youth
from his beloved. Are neither of them to say anything but just
"fare-thee-well"?'
"_Ludwig_. 'The hero may add a few words about his courage and the
justice of his cause, and the lover may tell his sweetheart that life
will be nothing but a long, painful dream without her. Still, the
simple "fare-thee-well" will be amply sufficient for the Composer--(who
draws his inspiration, not from the words, but from the business and
the situations)--to represent the mental condition of the hero and the
lover with powerful strokes and touches. To stick to the instance you
have adduced; just think in what thousands of most affecting and
heart-breaking ways the Italians have sung the little word "_addio_."
What thousands--ay, and thousands of thousands--of shades musical
expression is capable of! And of course it is just that that is the
marvellous mystery of the Tone-Art that, just where language comes to
an end, _she_ is only beginning to disclose a perennial fountain of fresh
forms of expression.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'Then what the opera-poet has to do is--to strive to
attain the utmost simplicity, as far as the words are concerned; it
will be enough to _suggest_ the situation, in clear and forcible
language.'
"_Ludwig_. 'Exactly: because the composer has to draw his inspiration
from the matter, the business and the situation--not from the words.
And not only is imagery to be avoided, but everything in the shape of a
reflection is a bugbear to the composer.'
"_Ferdinand_. 'After what you have said, I can assure you it seems to
be anything but an easy matter to write an opera text. Now, this
indispensable simpleness of the language; I can't say that I quite see
how to----'
"_Ludwig_. 'How to accomplish it! No! You are so fond of painting with
words, and so accustomed to it. But though Metastasio (as I think) has
exemplified in his librettos how opera texts ought _not_ to be written,
there are quantities of Italian poems which are absolute models of
words for music. For instance take the lines, known to the whole world,
no doubt:
"Almen si non poss' io
Seguir l'amato bene,
Affetti del cor mio
Seguite-lo per me!"
What can be simpler? Yet, in these few, unpretending words lies the
suggestion, or indication, of love and sorrow which the composer
comprehends, and can apply all the resources of musical expression to
represent. The particular situation in which the words are to be sung
will so stir his imagination that he will give the music the most
individual character. And this is why you will often find that a
poetical composer sets words that are wretched enough to admirable
music. In such cases what inspired him was that the matter was
genuinely suitable for opera; and as an instance I merely mention
Mozart's "Zauberfloete."'
"Ferdinand was going to reply, when, outside the windows, down in the
street, the drums were heard beating the _générale_. This seemed to
wake him to the sense of present duty as with an electric shock. Ludwig
shook him warmly by the hand.
"'Ah, Ferdinand,' he cried, 'what is to become of Art in these terrible
times? Won't it die, like some delicate plant lifting its languid head
towards the clouds beyond which the sun has disappeared? Ah! Where are
the golden days when we were lads? All that is good is drowned and
swept away by this torrent that whirls along, devastating the country.
We see bleeding corpses, appearing by glimpses, carried along in its
dark billows; and in the horror which seizes us, we slip and lose our
footing, we have nothing to hold on to; our cry of terror dies away in
the darksome air--victims of inappeasable anger, we sink to earth, and
there is no hope of salvation.' Ludwig paused, sunk in his thoughts.
"Ferdinand stood up, and put on his sword and helmet. He stood before
Ludwig like the God of War armed for the fray. Ludwig looked up at him
admiringly, and a glow came over Ferdinand's face, and he said, in a
calm and reassuring tone:
"'Ludwig, what has happened to you? Has the dungeon air which you have
been breathing here so long debilitated you, so that you are too sick
and faint to feel the warm reviving breath of spring which is blowing,
sweet and gentle, up there among the clouds as they glow with the rose
tints of dawn? The children of Nature were abbrutized and sunk in
sluggish inaction, careless of all her most precious gifts, and
treading them into the mire. Then their angry mother awoke the Genius
of War, who had long been sleeping in gardens heavy with the breath of
flowers--and War came, like some Giant of Adamant, amongst these spoilt
children, who, at the sound of his awful voice, which makes the hills
tremble, fled to their mother's arms for refuge, though they had
forgotten her before. But with remembrance came gratitude. Nothing but
strength brings success. The divine element radiates out from contest
and striving as life does from death. Yes, Ludwig, a time is upon us
which is pregnant with fate, and (as in the awful profundity of the
ancient Sagas, which come rolling over to us like the mysterious
muttering of distant thunder) we can trace, once more, distinctly, the
voice of that Power which rules for Ever more. Nay, marching visibly
into our lives, it awakes in us a faith which enables us to read the
riddle of our Being. The morning light is breaking, and inspired
Singers are soaring up in the sweet fresh morning air, proclaiming the
advent of the Divine, and celebrating it with hymns of praise. The
golden gates are open, and art and knowledge, in one united ray,
are kindling that flame of sacred effort which makes all humanity
one universal Church. Therefore lift up your eyes, dear friend.
Courage--Confidence--Faith.'
"Ferdinand clasped Ludwig's hand; and in a few moments his charger was
bearing him rapidly along with the troops moving on to the attack, the
light and joy of battle on every brow."
The friends were much affected by this; for each of them remembered
days when the clutch of a hostile destiny was at his throat and all
comfort or enjoyment in life seemed to be a thing of the past for ever.
And then, after a time, the first rays of the beautiful Star of Hope
began to pierce the clouds and rose higher and higher, reviving them,
strengthening and invigorating them with newness of life. Then, in the
gladsomeness of contest, everything stirred, and came into activity,
shouting for joy. At last the grandest and most brilliant of victories
rewarded their courage and constancy.
"Each of us," said Lothair, "has said, within himself, very much what
the Serapiontic Ferdinand said; and well is it for us that the menacing
storms which thundered over our heads refreshed us, instead of
annihilating us, and braced us like a fine sulphur bath. In fact, it
seems to me that it is only now, and here among you, that I begin to
feel quite strong and well, and to trace a fresh impulse to begin, now
that the storms are over, to bestir myself again in the paths of
literature and science. I know that Theodore is doing so right
strenuously; he is devoting himself, as of old, to his music, although
he is not neglecting literature neither, so that I am expecting him to
astonish us, one of these days, with an opera altogether his own, both
music and words. All that he has said about the impossibility of the
same person writing the words and the music of an opera may be
plausible enough, but it doesn't convince me."
"I don't agree with you," said Cyprian, "but I don't see much use in
continuing the discussion. It seems all the more a waste of time that
if the thing were possible, which Theodore says it is not, he would be
the first to set about doing it. It would be far better if he would
open his piano and, as he has favoured us with so many interesting
Stories, let us hear some of his Compositions."
"Cyprian," said Theodore, "is always accusing me of sticking too
closely to established forms, and rejecting any poetry which cannot be
fitted to some of them. This I do not admit, and I mean to prove what I
say by producing some music of mine to words which require a setting
differing from any of the hackneyed 'forms' in question. I mean
the Night Hymn in Mueller the painter's 'Genofeva.' All the sweet
sadness,--the pain, longing, and sense of the supernatural,--of a heart
torn by hopeless love are in the words of this beautiful poem. Moreover,
as the verses have a certain touching flavour of the Antique, I have
thought it better that the composition should be without any instrumental
accompaniment, but for voices alone, in the style of old Alessandro
Scarlatti, or the more modern Benedetto Marcello. I have done all the
music for it in my head, but only the beginning of it has been written
down as yet. If you haven't quite forgotten all about singing, and,
especially, if you still feel the benefit of our old practice at
'reading invisible music,' and can strike your notes correctly as of
old, I should like that we sing what I have composed for thebe words."
"Ah yes!" said Ottmar, "I remember about the 'reading invisible music.'
You used to put your fingers on the notes of the chords without
pressing them down, and each of us sang the notes of his part without
previously hearing them on the instrument. People who didn't notice the
process of indicating the notes couldn't imagine how we 'improvised'
part-music so cleverly; and for those who possess the talent of being
easily astonished, it really is a good and interesting musical trick.
For my part, I still sing that mediocre, grumbling old baritone of
mine, and have as little forgotten how to hit my note as Lothair, who
can still, with his fine _basso_, lay firm foundations on which tenors
like you and Cyprian can build skywards with security."
"For Cyprian's beautiful, delicate, tender tenor," said Theodore, "this
thing of mine is exactly suitable. Therefore I shall give him the first
tenor part, and take the second myself. Ottmar, who was always very
accurate in striking his note, shall take the first bass, and Lothair
the second. Only, for Heaven's sake, don't thunder, but keep the whole
thing soft and _sostenuto_, as the character of the composition
requires."
Theodore struck two or three introductory chords on the piano, and then
the voices began, with long, sustained notes, in the key of A flat
major:
"Beauteous Lover's Star,
That gleamest far and far,
In pale blue vault of Heaven!
To thee, this night, our hearts make prayer;
Oh! aid us in our fond despair!
To Love--to Love alone our souls are given."
The two Tenors now went on, in duet; key of F minor:
"Oh! calm and holy night!
Those glowing worlds of light--
Heaven's eyes--begin to tread their mystic measure.
Soar high, like sweet bells far-off chime,
Night Hymn of Love, in silv'ry rhyme--
Beat at Heaven's gate, in rhythmic, pulsant measure."
At the words "soar high," etc., the music had gone into the key of D
flat major, and now Lothair and Ottmar came in, in B flat minor:
"Oh! saintly souls above,
That burn in holy love,
With heart and tongue all pure from earthly tainting,
Drop down some balm on this poor heart,
Which fails, and droops, in bitter smart,
Contending here--in conflict well-nigh fainting."
Then, finally, the four voices ended in F major:
"Knock, knock, and soon the angel's voice will say,
'The gates are open! enter in for aye!'"
All of them--Lothair, Ottmar, and Cyprian--felt much affected by
Theodore's lovely music, which was in the simple, serious style of the
early masters. The tears came to their eyes. They embraced the clever
composer; they pressed him to their hearts. The clocks tolled midnight.
"Blessed be our reunion!" cried Lothair. "Oh! glorious Serapion
Brotherhood, which binds us with an eternal chain! May it ever keep
green and flourish! As we have done to-night, we will continue to
refresh and vivify our minds in the paths of literature and art; and
our next care will be to assemble again here at our Theodore's, at the
same time in the evening, this day week."
SECTION II.
Seven o'clock struck. Theodore was expecting his friends impatiently.
At last Ottmar came in.
"Leander has just been with me," he said; "that was what detained me. I
told him how sorry I was that I was called away by a pressing
engagement. He insisted on walking with me as far as the place I was
going to, but I slipped away from him in the dark--not without some
difficulty. I know he knew quite well I was coming here, and wanted to
come too."
"And you haven't brought him?" said Theodore. "He would have been most
welcome."
"No, no," said Ottmar, "that would never have answered at all. In the
first place, I don't consider that I have any right to bring in a
stranger--or, if Leander is not exactly a stranger, any fifth person
whatever--without the unanimous consent of the Serapion Brethren.
Besides, rather an unfortunate thing happened with regard to Leander,
through Lothair's fault. Lothair told him about our delightful Serapion
Brotherhood, in his usual enthusiastic style. He talked hyperbolically
of the admirable tendency of the Serapiontic principle, and asseverated
nothing less than that we meant--keeping that principle constantly in
view--to incite each other to undertake all sorts of interesting and
important work. On that, Leander said that an opportunity of
associating himself in this way with literary people was what it had
long been his most ardent desire to meet with, and that he hoped, if we
would admit him to our order, to prove himself a highly meritorious
brother of it. He added that he had a great many things _in petto_, and
as he said so, he made an involuntary movement of his hand towards one
of his coat pockets. It was stuffed to fatness; and, to my alarm, I saw
that the other pocket was so too; they were both distended with
manuscripts, and papers of an alarming aspect were sticking out of his
breast pocket as well."
Here Ottmar was interrupted by the somewhat boisterous entry of
Lothair, who was followed by Cyprian.
"A certain little storm cloud," said Theodore, "has been forming,
rather threateningly, in the atmosphere of this Serapion Brotherhood of
ours. However, Ottmar has managed to dispel it cleverly. Leander wanted
to come bothering us, and stuck to poor Ottmar like grim death, till he
managed to give him the slip in the dark."
"Why didn't he bring him?" asked Lothair. "He's a witty, clever,
intelligent fellow: I can't think of a more eligible member of our
society."
"How exactly like you that is," said Ottmar: "you are always the same
old Lothair; always changing your mind; always a member of the
opposition. If I had brought him, you would have been the very first to
find fault with me most bitterly. You say Leander is intelligent,
clever, and witty. Very well; so he is--all that and more. Everything
he writes has a roundness and a finish which evinces soundness of
criticism and clearness of judgment; but, in the first place, I don't
believe there is a man on this earth who is so absolutely devoid of any
trace of the Serapiontic principle. Everything he writes he has most
maturely thought out, weighed, and considered in all its aspects, but
never really _seen_. His reasoning faculty does not control his
imagination; it puts itself in its place. Then he delights in a wordy
prolixity which is unendurable to the hearer, if not to the reader;
works of his which one must admit to possess plenty of talent and
interest, are tedious beyond expression when he reads them aloud."
"There is a curious question there, connected with reading aloud; I
mean as to things _adapted_ for reading aloud," said Cyprian; "it seems
as if not only the most vivid life were essential to them, but that
they should be restricted to a certain definite length."
"The reason, I think," said Theodore, "is that the reader must not
declaim; experience tells us that _that_ is unendurable; he ought
merely to slightly indicate the various feelings that arise in the
course of the action, preserving a quiet tone; and this tone, after a
time, produces an irresistibly narcotic effect."
"What I think," said Ottmar, "is, that a story or poem, to be adapted
for reading aloud, ought to approach very closely to the dramatic, or
be dramatic altogether; but then again, why is it that most comedies
and tragedies are unsatisfactory when read aloud?--that is, become
boring and wearisome?"
"Just because they are quite _un_dramatic, said Lothair; "or because
too much has been left for the effect of the action of the actors on
the stage; or because the poem is so weak and feeble in itself that it
does not call up before the listener's mind any picture in clear,
distinct colours, and with living figures, except with the help of the
actors and the stage. However, we are losing sight of Leander, as to
whom I maintain, notwithstanding what Ottmar says to the contrary, that
he well deserves to be admitted to our circle."
"Well and good," said Ottmar, "but please to remember what your own
experience has been of him already; how he once dogged and pursued you
wherever you went, with a fat--fat dramatic poem; how you always
managed to give him the slip, till he asked you and me to a splendid
dinner, with grand cuisine and first-rate wines, so that we might
swallow the poem, thus washed down, like a dose of medicine; how I
endured two acts of it like a man, and was screwing up my courage for a
third, when you lost patience, and got up, declaring that you were
suddenly taken very unwell, and left poor Leander in the lurch, wines,
dinner, and all. Recollect how he came to your house once when you had
several people with you; how he now and then rustled papers in his
pockets, looking from one to the other with sly, crafty glances, in
hopes that somebody would say, 'You've brought something good, haven't
you, dear Leander?' How you privately implored us all, for God's sake,
to take no notice whatever of this menacing rustling, but to hold our
tongues. Remember how you used to liken old Leander--with a tragedy
always in his breast pocket, always armed and eager for the fray--to
Meros creeping to slay the tyrant, with a dagger in his breast; how
once, when you were obliged to ask him to dinner, he came with a great
fat manuscript in his hand, so that our hearts sunk within us; how he
then announced, with the sweetest smiles, that he could only stay for
an hour or so, because he had promised to go to Madame So-and-so's to
tea, and to read her his last epic poem in twelve cantos; how we then
breathed freely again, like men relieved from a terrible burden;
and when he went away all cried, with one voice, 'Oh, poor Madame
So-and-so!--what an unfortunate woman!'"
"Stop, stop, Ottmar," said Lothair; "what you say is all true enough,
of course, but nothing of that sort could take place amongst Serapion
Brethren. We form a strongly organized opposition to everything that is
not in harmony with our fundamental principle, and I would give odds
that Leander conforms to our rule."
"Don't imagine anything of the kind, dear Lothair," said Ottmar.
"Leander has a fault which many conceited writers have in common with
him--he won't listen; and, just for that reason, he always wants to be
the person who reads or speaks. He would always be trying to occupy the
whole of our evenings with his own interminable compositions; he would
take our efforts to obviate this in the worst possible part, and,
consequently, mar the whole of our enjoyment: he even spoke to-day of
works to be undertaken in common; and with that idea in his head he
would torture us terribly."
"That is a sort of thing which never answers," said Cyprian. "It
doesn't seem practicable for several people to write a work together;
it would require such absolute similarity of mental disposition, such
depth of insight, and such identity of the power to grasp ideas as they
suggest and succeed one another, even if a plot were fully determined
on in concert. I say this from experience, although of course there are
some instances to the contrary."
"At the same time," said Cyprian, "sympathetically-minded friends often
give each other valuable hints and suggestions, which lead to the
production of works."
"For a suggestion of that sort," said Ottmar, "I have to thank our
friend Severin, who, when he comes back here, as I expect him to do
immediately, will make a much better Serapion Brother than Leander. I
was sitting with him in the Thiergarten, Berlin, when there happened,
before our eyes, the incident which suggested the story called 'A
Fragment of the Lives of Three Friends,' which I wrote, and have
brought with me to read to you to-night; for when (as you shall
presently hear) the pretty girl read the letter, which had been
privately handed to her, with tears in her eyes, Severin cast pregnant
glances at me, and whispered, 'There's something for you, Ottmar; let
your fancy move its wings; write at once all about the girl, the
letter, and her tears.' I did so, and here you have the result."
The friends sat down at the round table; Ottmar took a manuscript from
his pocket, and read--
'A FRAGMENT OF THE LIVES OF THREE FRIENDS.
"One Whit Monday the 'Webersche Zelt,' a place of public resort in the
Thiergarten, Berlin, was so densely crowded by people of every sort and
kind that it was only by dint of unremitting and assiduous shouting,
and the most dogged perseverance of pursuit, that Alexander succeeded
in capturing a much-vexed and greatly-badgered waiter, and inducing him
to set out a small table under the trees beside the water, where he,
with his friends Severin and Marzell (who had managed, by the exercise
of fine strategical talent, to possess themselves of a couple of
chairs), sat down in the happiest possible frame of mind. It was only a
few days since they had come back to Berlin. Alexander had arrived from
a distant province to take possession of the heritage of an aunt
deceased, and the two others had come back to resume the duties of
their Government appointments, from which they had been absent for a
considerable time on military duty, during the important campaign which
was just at an end. This was the day when they had arranged to
celebrate their reunion in famous style, and, as it often happens, it
was the Present, with its doings and strivings, more than the eventful
Past, that was occupying their minds.
"'I can assure you,' said Alexander, taking up the steaming coffee-pot
and filling the cups, 'that if you saw me in my aunt's old house--how I
wander pathetically up and down the lofty chambers hung with gloomy
tapestry; how Mistress Anne, my aunt's former housekeeper, a little
spectral-looking creature, comes in wheezing and coughing, carrying the
pewter salver with my breakfast in her trembling arms, putting it down
on the table with a curious backward-sliding curtsey, and then making
her exit without a word, sighing, and scuffling along on slippers too
large for her feet, like the beggar wife of Locarno, while the tom-cat
and the pug, eying me with dubious glances, go out after her; how I
then, with a low-spirited parrot scolding at me, and china mandarins
nodding at me with scornful smiles, swallow cup after cup of the
coffee, scarcely daring to desecrate this virginal chamber, where amber
and mastic have been wont to shed their perfumes, with vulgar tobacco
reek,--I say, if you were to see me in these circumstances, you would
say I was under some spell of enchantment; you would regard me as a
species of Merlin. I can assure you that the easy adaptability to
circumstances which you have so often blamed me for was the sole cause
of my having at once taken up my quarters in my aunt's lonely house,
instead of looking out for some other lodging; for the pedantic
scrupulosity of her executor has rendered it an exceedingly uncanny
place to be in. That strange creature of an aunt of mine (whom I
scarcely ever saw) left directions in her will that everything was to
remain till my arrival exactly as she left it at her death. By the side
of the bed, which is resplendent in snow-white linen and sea-green
silk, still stands the little tabouret, on which, as of yore, is laid
out the maidenly night-dress and the much be-ribboned nightcap; under
it are the embroidered slippers,--and a brightly polished silver
mermaid (the handle of some piece of toilet apparatus or other)
glitters as it projects from beneath the quilt, which is all over
many-tinted flowers. The unfinished piece of embroidery, which she
was working at shortly before her death, is still lying in the
sitting-room, with Arndt's 'True Christianity' open beside it; and
(what for me, at all events, fills up the measure of eeriness) in this
same room there is a life-size portrait of her, taken some thirty-five
or forty years ago, in her wedding-dress; in which wedding-dress, as
Mistress Anne tells me with many tears, just as it is shown in the picture,
she was buried.'
"'What a strange idea!' said Marzell.
"'Yet not so very odd, after all,' said Severin; 'those who die maids
are called the brides of Christ, and I trust nobody would be reprobate
enough to make fun of this pretty old fancy, which well beseems an old
maiden's creed. At the same time I don't quite gather why the aunt had
her portrait taken as a bride forty years ago.'
"'As the tale was told to me,' said Alexander, 'my aunt was engaged to
be married at one time--indeed the wedding-day had arrived, and she was
dressed and waiting for the bridegroom; but he never made his
appearance, having thought proper to leave the place that morning with
a "flame" of his of earlier date. My aunt took this deeply to heart,
and, without being exactly queer in the head, always kept the
anniversary of that marriage-day of hers, that was to have been,
in a curious way. Early in the morning of it she used to put on her
wedding-dress complete, and (as she had done on the day itself) lay out
a little table of walnut-wood with gilt carvings in her dressing-room,
with chocolate, wine, and cake for two people, and then walk slowly up
and down, sighing and softly lamenting, till ten at night, when, after
she had prayed fervently, Mistress Anne would undress her, and she
would go silently to bed, sunk in deep reflection.'
"'I call that exceedingly touching,' said Marzell. 'Woe to the traitor
who caused the poor creature that never-forgotten pain!'
"'But there may be another side to the question,' said Alexander: 'the
man whom you accuse of perfidy--and who was a traitor, no doubt,
whatever may have been his motives--may have had a warning from his
good genius; or, if you prefer to say so, a better feeling may have
come to him. Perhaps it was her money that was the attraction; he may
have found out that she was imperious, quarrelsome, miserly--in short,
a disagreeable person to have much to do with.'
"'Perhaps,' said Severin, laying his pipe on the table, and looking
reflectively before him with his arms crossed; 'but could those silent,
affecting funereal observances--those resigned regrets, heard only
in her own heart, for the unfaithful scoundrel--have existed in any
but a deep and tender nature, which must have been a stranger to the
worldly infirmities which you accuse your aunt of? No doubt the bitter
feeling--(how seldom can we altogether master it, hard beset as we are
in this life of ours?)--may sometimes have manifested itself in her in
various forms, not always very easily recognizable, and having a more or
less unpleasant effect upon the old lady's surroundings; still, that
yearly day of pious sorrow would have atoned, in my eyes, at all events,
for any amount of shortcomings during the rest of the time.'
"'I agree with you, Severin,' said Marzell. 'The old lady can't have
been quite so bad as Alexander--though only from hearsay--makes her out
to have been; at the same time I must confess I don't like to have
anything to do with folks who have had their lives embittered, and it's
better that Alexander should edify himself with the story of the old
lady's way of keeping her wedding-day (that ought to have been), and
rummage in the well-filled boxes and chests she has left him, or gloat
over the valuable "inventory," than that he should see the deserted
bride, dressed for the altar, walking up and down beside her
chocolate-table.'
"Alexander set the coffee-cup which he was raising to his lips down
untasted on the table with a clatter; beat his hands together, and
cried, 'For Heaven's sake don't put ideas of that sort into my head!
Really I feel in that state that it wouldn't astonish me if I were to
see my old aunt in her bride-clothes suddenly peering, in a horrible,
spectral manner, out of the middle of that group of nice-looking girls
there, in the bright sunshine!'
"'That serves you right for having said what you did about your aunt,
who never did you anything but kindness, even in death,' said Severin,
with a quiet laugh, puffing away little blue cloudlets from his pipe,
which he had resumed.
"Do you know, my dear fellows,' said Alexander, 'that the very
atmosphere of that old house of mine seems to be so thoroughly
impregnated with the essence and spirit of the old lady, that one has
only to be in it for a day or two to find one's self imbibing it to a
very appreciable extent?'
"Marzell and Severin chanced to be handing their empty cups to
Alexander as he spoke; he put in the sugar and milk, and poured out the
coffee with a dainty, deliberate care, and said:
"'I daresay you notice how differently I do a thing of this sort from
my old way of doing it; I mean, I do it much more like an old lady; and
you will be more astonished still when I tell you that I find myself
taking a strange pleasure in well-polished pewter and copper, and in
linen and silver plate--in everything relating to a well-ordered
household. In one word, I feel like some old housekeeper. I find myself
looking with a funny satisfaction at household paraphernalia of every
sort, and it has suddenly dawned upon me that it is good to be the
possessor of something besides a bed, a chair, a table, a lamp and an
inkstand. My aunt's executor smiles and tells me I can marry whenever I
choose, and have nothing to do but fix upon the bride and the parson.
What he really means is that the bride's not far to seek. He has a
little bit of a daughter himself; a dressy little thing with great big
eyes, excessively childish and innocent in her ways, always gushing
with artlessness, and hopping about like a water-wagtail. I daresay
this may have been all very well, considering her little elfin
figure, some sixteen years ago or so; but now that she's two- or
three-and-thirty, it gives one rather a queer sensation.'
"'Ay,' said Severin, 'and yet how very natural that kind of
self-mystification is. Where is the precise point where a girl, who
has taken up some particular line, in consequence of some personal
peculiarity or other, is to say to herself, "I am no longer what I was;
the colours I put on are still fresh and youthful, but my face has lost
its bloom; so, patience! what can't be cured must be endured!" The
sight of a poor girl in these circumstances fills me with pity, and,
for that very reason, I could put my arms about her, take her to my
heart, and comfort her.'
"'You see, Alexander,' said Marzell, 'that Severin's in his most
beneficent mood to-day. First, he takes up the cudgels for your aunt,
and now the executor's daughter (I think I know who the executor
is--Falter, the Kriegsrath); Falter's little witch of two- or
three-and-thirty, whom I know very well, inspires him with sentiments
of sad, compassionate sympathy; presently he'll advise you to marry her,
and cure her of that inappropriate _naïveté_ of hers; for that she will
lay aside, as far as you are concerned at all events, the moment she says
"Yes!" Don't you do anything of the kind. Experience teaches that naïve
little creatures of that kind are sometimes--or rather very often--of
feline nature, and, out of the velvet paws which they stroke you with
before the parson's blessing, can soon stick out sharp enough claws, on
suitable opportunity afterwards.'
"'Heavens and earth!' cried Alexander, 'what nonsense you're talking!
Neither Falter's little witch of thirty-two, nor anybody else, were she
ten times as young and charming, could induce me to go and sacrifice,
of my own free will and accord, the golden years of youthful liberty
and freedom which, now that a slice of the good things of this world
has fallen to my share, I mean to set to work to thoroughly enjoy; and
the fact is that the old bridely aunt has such a ghostly, haunting
effect upon me, that I can't help associating all sorts of eery,
uncanny, shuddery feelings with the very word "bride."'
"I'm sorry for you,' said Marzell; 'for my part, the moment I think of
a girl dressed for her wedding, I feel sweet, secret thrills going all
through me; and if I see such a creature, I feel impelled to clasp her
to me, mentally, with a lofty, pure affection which has nothing in
common with mundane passion.'
"'Oh!' said Alexander, 'I know you always fall in love with every bride
you come across; and often even other people's sweethearts are to be
found set up in that inner sanctuary which you have established in your
imagination.'
"'He loves with them that love,' said Severin; 'that's why I like him
so much.'
"I shall set my aunt at him,' said Alexander, laughing, 'and see if
that will rid me of a species of haunting which is becoming rather a
nuisance to me. You are looking at me with questioning glances, are
you?--very well then; I'll make a clean breast of it. The old-maid
nature is traceable in me in this further respect, that I feel a
perfectly unendurable terror of ghosts, and go on like some little
child whom its nurse has frightened with a bogy. What happens is no
less than this: that often in broad daylight, and particularly about
mid-day, when I'm looking into the chests and boxes, I suddenly seem to
catch a glimpse of my aunt's peaky nose close beside me, and of her
long, lean fingers poking in among the clothes and linen, and rummaging
among them. If I take down a teacup, or a saucepan off the wall, to
look at them with a feeling of satisfaction, all the rest rattle, and I
expect to see a ghostly hand offering me another; then I throw the
things down, and run to the front-room without looking over my
shoulder. There I sing or whistle out of the open window into the
street, at which Mistress Anne is greatly scandalized: and that the
aunt "walks" every night at twelve o'clock is a positive and undoubted
fact.'
"Marzell laughed heartily at this. Severin remained grave, and said,
'Let us hear all about that; it'll probably turn out to be some trick
or other. Fancy a fellow with your enlightened, advanced views, turning
spirit-seer!'
"'Well, Severin,' said Alexander, 'you know quite well, and so does
Marzell, that nobody could be less of a believer in ghosts and
apparitions than I have always been. Never in my life till now have I
ever met with anything in the least out of the common, and I had never
had the slightest experience of that strange, nervous sense of the
proximity of spiritual principles belonging to another state of being
which paralyzes both body and mind; but let me tell you what happened
the very first night I spent in the house.'
"'Not too loud, then,' said Marzell, 'for I think our neighbours here
are doing us the favour of listening to what we are saying.'
"'They shan't hear,' said Alexander; 'indeed I scarcely like to tell
even you; however, here goes, I may as well out with it. Mistress Anne
received me, dissolved in tears, and went before me with a branched
silver candlestick in her trembling hands to the bedroom, groaning and
coughing as she went. The postboy had to bring in my trunk, and as he
pocketed, with profuse thanks, the tip I gave him, he took a survey of
the room with a grin on his face, till he fixed his eyes on the great
towering bed with the sea-green curtains.
"'"My word!" he cried, "the gentleman'll have a better night of it than
he would have had in the old coach!--and the nightgown and nightcap all
ready and waiting!"
"'Mistress Anne, almost fainting with the shock of this irreverent
mention of the maidenly night-gear, was letting the candlestick fall,
but I caught it in time, and lighted the fellow out. He cast a
facetious look at the old woman as he departed. When I came back she
was all in a tremble; she thought I would tell her to go, and proceed
coolly to desecrate the maidenly couch by sleeping in it, but she
revived when I told her I wasn't accustomed to anything so soft, and
should be obliged if she would make me up a shake-down as well as she
could in the sitting-room. Her wrinkles of annoyance vanished, and her
face lighted up, in a way it never has since, into a most gracious
smile. She dipped her long lean arms down to the ground, fingered up
the down-trodden heels of her slippers, and trotted off, half
frightened and half delighted. As I meant to have a fine long sleep, I
told her not to come with my coffee before nine o'clock; so I left the
old woman for the night almost with Wallenstein's words.
"I was tired to death, and thought I should fall asleep in a moment,
but the manifold thoughts and fancies which began to cross each other
in my brain drove sleep away. I seemed to be only beginning to realize
the rapid change which had taken place in my position and
circumstances. It was only now, when I had actually taken possession of
my property, and was absolutely in my house, that I quite grasped the
fact that I was suddenly lifted out of very narrow circumstances to a
position of affluence, and that life was opening before me a vista of
most agreeable ease and comfort. The watchman's discordant voice
croaked out "Eleven," and "Twelve." I was so wide awake that I
distinctly heard my watch ticking on the table, and a cricket chirping
somewhere a long way off; but as the last stroke of twelve sounded,
hollow and faint, from a church-clock in the distance, measured
footfalls began to walk up and down the room, and at every step came
the sounds of sobbing and sighing, growing louder and louder, till they
were like the heart-breaking cries of some creature in deadly pain or
peril, and then there came a scuffling and a scratching on the outside
of the door, and a dog whimpered and moaned, in tones that were almost
human. I had noticed the old pug--my aunt's pet and darling--the
evening before. It was evidently him, whining to get in. I got out of
bed: I stared most scrutinizingly all about the room, which was dimly
lighted by the glimmer of the sky. Everything that was in it I could
make out distinctly; but no form was to be seen moving up and down,
though the footsteps, and the sobbing and sighing, still went on,
apparently close beside my bed. And then, suddenly, I was seized by
that terror, arising from the proximity of a spirit, which I had never
known before. I felt a cold perspiration dropping from my forehead, and
my hair standing straight up on end, as if frozen by its iciness. I
could not move a limb, nor open my mouth to scream, for terror; but my
blood streamed faster in my throbbing veins, and kept my inner senses
active, though they could exercise no control over my organs, which
were paralyzed as with a spasm of death. Suddenly the footsteps
stopped, and the sobbing ceased; then I could hear a sort of coughing
sound--like a clearing of the throat more than coughing; the door of a
cupboard seemed to open; there was a clattering as of a silver spoon;
then a sound as if some bottle was opened and put back on the shelf; a
sound of swallowing, and then a deep-drawn sigh. At that instant a
tall, white figure seemed to come wavering forward out of the wall. I
sunk down into the depths of an ice river of the wildest terror. I lost
consciousness.
"I came to myself with the sensation of a fall from some height. You
all know that every-day dream sensation; but the peculiar feeling that
I experienced then I hardly know how to describe to you. It was some
time before I could make out where I was, and then there was a sense as
if something terrible had been happening, which a long, death-like
sleep had wiped away the remembrance of. At last it all came gradually
back to me, but I thought it was nothing but a painful dream. However,
when I got up I noticed the portrait for the first time--the portrait
in the wedding-dress; a life-size, three-quarter length portrait. A
cold shiver ran down my back, for I felt sure I recognized in it the
figure which I had seen in the night. But then I could see nothing in
the shape of a cupboard in the room, and that confirmed me in the
conclusion that I had only been dreaming.
"'Mistress Anne brought my coffee. She looked me long in the face, and
said, "Eh, sir! you _are_ looking pale and badly!--has anything been
happening?" Far from telling her anything about it, I said an
oppression in my chest had prevented me from sleeping. "It's the
stomach!--it's the stomach!" said the old woman. "Eh! we've help at
hand for that!" She scuffled up to the wall; opened a door in the
hangings which I had not noticed before, and I saw into a cupboard
where there were glasses, small bottles, and two or three silver
spoons. The old woman took out one of the spoons, clattering and
tinkling it as she did so; opened a bottle; poured a few drops from it
into the spoon; put it back in its place, and then came towards me with
her unsteady, wavering gait. I gave a scream of horror. It was the
exact reproduction, in broad, waking daylight, of the scene of the
previous night.
"'"Well, well!" croaked the old woman, with a strange grin; "it's only
a drop of medicine, sir. The mistress was troubled with her stomach
too, and often had to take a little."
"'I manned myself, and swallowed the stuff, which was bitter and
hot. My eyes were on the bride's picture, which was just over the
wall-press. "Whose portrait's that?" I asked.
"'"Good gracious, sir! don't you know?" she cried. "That's poor dear
mistress, that's dead and gone your aunt." The tears ran down her
cheeks. The dog began to whimper, as it had done in the night. I
mastered my inward shudder, and forced myself with some difficulty to
be composed. I said:
"'"Mistress Anne! I feel quite positive that my aunt was at that
cupboard last night at twelve o'clock, taking some of those drops."
"'The old woman showed no surprise. A strange, deadly pallor seemed to
extinguish the last sparks of life in her wrinkled face, and she said
softly, "Has the Feast of the Invention of the Cross come round
again?--No; it's long past the third of May."
"'I didn't feel able to ask anything further, and the old woman went
away. I dressed as fast as I could, left my breakfast untouched, and
ran as quickly as possible into the open air to try and shake off
the dreadful feeling of unreality--as if everything was a horrible
dream--which had taken possession of me again. That night, without my
having given any orders on the subject, Mistress Anne made up my bed in
a nice cheerful room facing the street. I have never said another word
to her about what I heard and saw, far less to Falter. Do me the favour,
you two, to say nothing about it either, or there will only be a lot of
annoying tittle-tattle, and endless troublesome questions, and, very
likely, all the bother of a formal investigation by the Psychological
Society. Even in the room where I sleep now, I feel pretty certain I
can hear the footsteps and the sobs every night at midnight. However, I
mean to put up with it the best way I can for a short time, and then
try to get rid of the house as quietly as possible, and look out for
another.'
"When Alexander had finished, there was a short silence. Then Marzell
said:
"'All this about your old aunt haunting the house is strange and
uncanny enough. But, firmly as I believe that an extraneous Spiritual
Principle, or "Entity," has the power of making itself felt by, or
perceptible to, us in some way or other, this adventure of yours
strikes one as being very largely tinctured with a purely material
element. The footsteps, and the sighing and sobbing, might pass well
enough: but that the poor old aunt deceased should go and swallow
stomachic drops, as she did when she was feeling a little out of sorts
in this life--well, it's too much like the lady who, when she revisited
the glimpses of the moon after death, used to scrabble outside the
window like a cat shut out by accident.'
"'Now that,' said Severin, 'is just one of the regular, stereotyped
ways in which we go wilfully mystifying ourselves. We admit that an
extraneous Spiritual Principle can affect us (apparently, at all
events), by acting on our bodily senses, but we insist on giving said
spiritual principle a certain amount of education, and on teaching it
what it is proper, and what it is improper that it should do. According
to your theory, my dear Marzell, a spirit may go about in slippers and
sigh and sob, but it mustn't take the cork out of a bottle, or swallow
any of its contents. Here it is to be observed that our own spirit, in
dreams, often hangs commonplace matters out of our own imprisoned state
of life on to that higher condition of being which only indicates
itself dimly, even in dreams; and that it employs a great deal of irony
in so doing. May not this irony, which lies so very deep in our nature
(so conscious of its state of decadence from what it originally was)
still exist in the soul after it has burst from the chrysalis of the
body, and out of this life of dreams, when it is allowed a glance back
at its discarded envelope? On this theory, the essential factor in
every case of spirit-seeing is the Will of the Spiritual Entity, and
the influence exerted by it. This influence is what sends the person
affected by it, though in the waking state, into the world of
dreams--(though the person seeing relieves that he does so by means of
his natural senses)--and it would be absurd enough were we to insist on
establishing, for appearances of this sort, any particular "Norm,"
corresponding to our ideas of what ought, or ought not to be. It's
worthy of remark that people who walk in their sleep, active dreamers,
are often employed about the most trivial functions of life: for
instance, the fellow who, on the night of full moon, always used to
saddle his horse, take it out of the stable, and then lead it back,
unsaddle it, and go to his bed again. However, all these matters are
mere _disjecta membra_. What I really am driving at is, briefly----'
"'You believe in the old aunt then, do you?' asked Alexander, turning
rather pale.
"'What is there that he doesn't believe?' said Marzell. 'And I am a
true believer, too, though not such a confirmed one, perhaps. But now
I'm going to tell you that I have been haunted too; and that by a much
worse apparation, in the house where I'm lodging at present. I assure
you it nearly frightened me to death.'
"'And I haven't been so much better off, neither,' said Severin.
"'When I got back here to Berlin the other day,' said Marzell, 'I took
a nice, comfortable, well-furnished room in Friedrich Strasse. Like
Alexander, I was tired to death when I threw myself into bed; but
I had hardly been asleep for an hour or so when I became aware of
something like a bright light shining on my closed eyelids. I opened my
eyes--and, fancy my horror--close beside my bed stood a tall, attenuated
figure, with a face as pale as death, and frightfully distorted,
staring at me fixedly with glassy-looking spectral eyes! A white shirt
was hanging from the shoulders of this figure, so that its breast was
bare, and seemed to be bloody. In its left hand it had a branched
candlestick, with two lighted wax candles; and in its right, a tall
glass full of water. Speechlessly, I kept my eyes riveted on this
spectral being as it began swinging the lights and the glass in wide
circles, uttering horrible, whimpering sounds as it did so. Like
Alexander, I was seized by "ghost terror." Slower and slower the
spectre swung the lights and the water-glass, till they came to a stop.
Then I fancied I could hear a sort of low, whispering singing in the
room, and, with a curious sardonic sort of laugh, the figure went
slowly away, out of the door. It was long before I could summon up
courage to get up and hurriedly bolt the door, which I found I had
neglected to do the night before when I went to bed. Often and often,
when I was serving in the field, I have found some stranger standing
beside me when I awoke; but that never frightened me at all, so that I
was firmly persuaded there was something supernatural about the affair
in this instance. Well, I was going downstairs next morning to talk to
the landlady about what had happened in the night. As I came out on to
the landing the opposite door opened and a tall attenuated figure,
muffled up in a white dressing-gown, came out meeting me. At the first
glance I recognized the deadly white face and the sunken, glassy eyes I
had seen at my bedside in the night. And, although I knew, now, that,
if the ghost appeared again it was kickable, still, I felt a sort of
echo of the terror which had been on me in the night, and was starting
off downstairs as fast as I could. But the individual barred my
passage, took me politely by the hand and said, in a kindly manner,
with a good-tempered smile on his face:
"'"Good-morning, dear neighbour. I trust you had a quiet night, and
that nothing disturbed you?"'
"'I told him what had happened without a moment's hesitation; adding
that I felt pretty certain he had been the apparition himself, and that
I was glad I hadn't given him a pretty warm reception, as, from my
recent experience in the field, I was, not unnaturally, rather apt to
think that people who came in upon me in that sort of fashion were not
exactly friendly. I added that I could scarcely be expected to answer
for myself, in that respect, in the future.
"'As I said this the man kept on smiling and shaking his head; and,
when I had finished, he said, very softly and gently:
"'"Well, my dear neighbour, I hope you won't be annoyed. Ay--ay--the
fact is, I thought, I felt quite _sure_ it would be so, and this
morning I knew it had been, I felt so well and happy, so composed and
reassured in myself. You see, I'm a very anxious, nervous man: how
could it be otherwise? Yes, yes: and so they say that, the day after
to-morrow,--"
"'And he went on to talk about common, every-day gossip of the town,
and then to other matters connected with the place, likely to be of
interest to a new arrival; and all this he dished up not without a
spice of irony which was entertaining enough. So, now that he began to
be interesting, I went back to the events of the night, and asked him
to tell me, without reserve or hesitation, what had induced him to come
and wake me up in that alarming manner.
"'"Ah, my dear neighbour," he said, "I really hope you won't be much
annoyed with me for taking the liberty--I'm sure I scarcely know how I
could have been so bold. It was only that I was anxious to know how you
were disposed towards me. I'm an exceedingly anxious, nervous man; and
a new neighbour can be a very painful trial to me till I know what
terms we're going to be upon."
"'I assured this extraordinary fellow that, so far, I hadn't the
slightest idea what he was driving at; and then he took me by the hand,
and led me into his room.
"'"Why should I hide from you, dear neighbour," he said, taking me to
the window--"why should I deny, or make any secret of the miraculous
power which I possess? God's strength is made perfect in our weakness;
and thus it is that, to me, wretched creature that I am, exposed
without shield to all the fiery darts of the adversary, has been
vouchsafed, as a means of help and protection, the miraculous power of
seeing, under certain conditions, into the hearts of men, and reading
their inmost thoughts. I take up this clear, bright vessel, containing
distilled water" (he took a tall drinking-glass from the window-sill,
it was the same he had had in the night), "I fix my thoughts and
concentrate my will upon the person whose heart I wish to read, and I
swing the glass to and fro, observing certain prescribed oscillations,
known only to myself. Presently little bubbles begin to move up and
down in the water, throwing reflections, something like the back of a
looking-glass, and by-and-by, as I look at them, I seem to see, as it
were, my own inner spirit reflected in them, perceptibly and legibly,
although a higher consciousness recognizes the image and its reflection
as that of the person upon whom I am exerting my will. Often, when the
propinquity of a stranger, as yet uninvestigated, makes me over anxious
and uneasy, it chances that I make an experiment in the night; and I
presume this was the case last night; for I can assure you you caused
me no little uneasiness yesterday evening. Oh! my dear, dear neighbour,
surely I can't be wrong, surely I'm not making a mistake here: you and
I spent many happy days together in Ceylon, just as nearly as possible
two hundred years ago? Did we not?"
"'Then he got into all sorts of labyrinths of incoherence, and I saw
well enough whom I had to do with, and got away from him as quickly as
I could, though not without some difficulty.
"'When I asked the landlady about him, I found that my neighbour, who
had long been a much esteemed savant and man of business, with much
many-sided cultivation, had a short time before fallen into a profound
_maliconia_, in which he believed that everybody was inimically
disposed to him and wanted to do him some harm; till all at once he
thought he had discovered the means of finding out those who were his
enemies and were hostile to him; upon which he had passed into his
present tranquil and contented condition of madness with "fixed idea."
It seems he sits nearly all day at his window making experiments with
his glass. His own kindly disposition is seen in the circumstance that
he nearly always augurs well of the people whom he experiments upon,
and when he comes across anybody whom he thinks inimical, or dubious,
he is not angry, but droops into a state of quiet sadness. So that his
madness is quite harmless, and his elder brother, who manages his
affairs, can let him live wherever he chooses, and has no occasion to
give himself any trouble about him.'
"'So that your ghost,' said Severin, 'belongs to the category of those
in Wagner's "Book of Apparitions," inasmuch as your explanation--to the
effect that it was due to natural causes, and was chiefly the result of
your own imagination--comes dragging in at the tail of the story, as is
always the case in that most prosy of books.'
"'If nothing short of a ghost will satisfy you,' said Marzell, 'of
course that is so. However, this madman of mine with whom I'm now on
the most intimate terms--is a very interesting specimen; and there's
only one thing connected with him that I don't altogether like, namely,
that he's beginning to take to _other_ fixed ideas; for instance, that
he's the King of Amboyna, and has been taken prisoner, and exhibited
for money about the country, as a bird of paradise, for fifty years.
Now that sort of thing is capable of turning into a violent form of
insanity. I knew a man who used to shine as the moon in the quietest
and happiest madness every night, till he took it in his head that he
had got to rise as the sun also, and then he broke out into the wildest
violence.'
"'My dear fellows,' cried Alexander, 'is this talk for a place like
this, in the middle of thousands of people in their holiday clothes,
enjoying themselves in the bright sunshine? All we want to make us
perfect is that Severin--who's looking much paler and more pensive than
I like to see him shall have had some more terrible experience than
even we have, and will tell us about it.'
"'Well,' said Severin, 'the fact is, though I haven't been seeing any
ghost, still the mysterious, the supernatural, has come in contact with
my life so nearly and closely, that I have been most painfully made
aware of the existence of "the electric chain with which we are darkly
bound."'
"I was certain,' said Alexander, 'that the strange mood he is in must
be traceable to something out of the common.'
"'We shall hear strange matters now, I feel certain,' said Marzell with
a laugh.
"On which Severin said:
"'If Alexander's aunt deceased takes doses of stomachic drops, if
Nettelmann, the ex-private secretary--(for he's the madman, and a very
old acquaintance of mine he is)--has divined Marzell's good disposition
towards him in a glass of water, perhaps I may be allowed to tell you
of a curious instance of foreboding, or presentiment, or call it a
prescience, which I have experienced in the form of the perfume of a
flower. You know that I am living at the far end of the Thiergarten,
near the park-ranger's? Very well. The day of my arrival----'
"Here Severin was interrupted by an old gentleman, vary nicely dressed,
who politely asked him to be kind enough to move his chair a little
forward to let him pass. Severin rose, and the old gentleman, bowing
courteously, led forward an elderly lady, apparently his wife. A boy of
some twelve years followed them. Severin was about to sit down again,
when Alexander said softly, 'Wait a moment; that young lady there seems
to belong to the family, too.'
"The friends looked, and saw a wonderfully beautiful creature
approaching, with hesitating steps, looking backwards over her
shoulder. She seemed to be looking for some one whom she was anxious to
see, or perhaps had noticed in passing. Almost immediately a young
fellow came gliding up to her through the crowd, and slipped a note
into her hand, which she quickly concealed in her breast. Meanwhile,
the old gentleman had taken possession of a table which some people had
just left, and was telling the flying waiter (whom he had checked in
his flight, and was holding tight by the flap of his jacket) at much
length, and with great minuteness, what he was to go and bring. The
lady was occupied in dusting the chairs, and consequently they did not
observe the loitering of their daughter, who, without taking any notice
of Severin (who still stood politely holding the chair to allow her to
pass), made haste to rejoin her people. She sat down so that the
friends were able to look straight into her wonderfully beautiful face,
and dark, exquisitely 'appealing' eyes. There was something immensely
attractive and irresistible in her whole being, and in all her
movements. She was beautifully dressed in the latest fashions, a trifle
too much dressed, perhaps, for the promenade, but still in perfect
taste. The mother recognised a lady sitting a short distance off, and
they rose and talked to each other; the old gentleman lighted his pipe.
The young lady took advantage of this chance to take the letter from
her breast and read it hastily, and the friends saw the colour come
quickly to the poor thing's cheeks, and the big tears rise in her eyes,
while her bosom rose and fell with emotion. She tore the letter into
little fragments, and let the wind carry them one by one away, as if
each was some beautiful hope hard to relinquish. The old people came
back: the father looked keenly at her tearful eyes, and seemed to be
asking her what was the matter. She answered a word or two in a tone of
gentle regret (the friends couldn't hear them), but, as she took out
her handkerchief and held it to her cheek, they concluded she was
pretending to have toothache; and therefore it struck them as strange
that her father--who had a somewhat caricature-like face of irony on
him--made funny grimaces, and laughed heartily.
"Neither Alexander, Severin, nor Marzell had said a word, but kept
their eyes riveted on the lovely creature who had suffered such a
bitter sorrow. The boy now came and sat down, and his sister changed
her place so that her back was turned to our friends. This broke the
spell, and Alexander, standing up, and tapping Severin on the shoulder,
said:
"'Well, friend Severin, what has become of your prescience in the shape
of a flower; and of Nettelmann, my aunt, and all the other subjects we
were discussing so profoundly? What is this apparition which has tied
our tongues and amazed our eyes?'
"'One remark I will make,' said Marzell with a heavy sigh, 'to wit,
that that poor girl there is the most divinely and exquisitely
beautiful creature that ever I beheld.'
"'Oh!' said Severin, sighing more deeply than Marzell; 'and to think
that this lovely darling is under the burden of some terrible sorrow!'
"'Ay,' said Marzell, and has probably just received a crushing blow.'
"Exactly,' said Alexander. 'What I wish to goodness is, that I could
get hold of that great, awkward-looking lout of a fellow who gave her
the letter. If I could only give him a good hiding, I should feel
relieved in my mind. Of course it was he whom she was expecting to meet
here; and, instead of joining the family party, like a man, he has gone
and handed her some boshy letter telling her he couldn't come. Some
preposterous piece of jealousy, I suppose; some lover's quarrel or
another.'
"Marzell interrupted him impatiently. 'How little you know the world!
Your hiding would fall upon the shoulders (temptingly broad they are, I
admit) of an innocent, inoffensive messenger. You could see that in the
silly smile of him, in his whole manner, even in his walk. He was only
the letter-carrier, not the letter-writer. You may do what you like,
but if you hand a person a letter of your own writing, the contents of
it are legible in your face. At all events your face is always a
condensed "summary" of the full official report inside. Nothing but the
most cruel irony (easily recognisable into the bargain) would have made
a man give the woman he loved a letter with the particular sort of bow
that the fellow made when he handed that one. No! what seems certain
is, that the poor thing expected to meet her sweetheart--prevented from
seeing her at home--in this place. He has been unavoidably prevented
from coming; or perhaps, as Alexander thinks, some silly lover's
quarrel has kept him away: so that he sent some friend with the letter.
At all events, whatever the facts may be, the little scene was quite
heart-breaking.'
"And yet,' said Severin, 'you ascribe this deep, heart-breaking sorrow
to some trumpery, every-day cause! No, no! she has a secret passion,
most likely against her parents' will. All her hopes depended upon some
one event which to-day was to decide. It has all turned out amiss!
hope's star has set for ever, all earthly happiness is a thing of the
past! Didn't you see the heart-breaking look of deep, inconsolable
sorrow with which she sent the fragments of the fatal letter fluttering
away on the breeze, like Ophelia with her straw flowers, or Emilia
Galotti with her roses? I could have wept tears of blood when the wind
whirled away those words of death, as in bitter, sneering mockery! Is
there no comfort on earth? Does the world contain no more hope or
consolation for that most lovely, interesting young creature?'
"'Bravo, Severin,' said Alexander, 'you're fairly afloat and under way,
now! you've got your tragedy fairly in hand! No, no! we'll leave her
some hope still, some prospect of happiness in this world; and I
believe she hasn't many misgivings on the subject herself. She seems to
be pretty composed and comfortable in her mind. See how carefully she's
putting her new white gloves down on the tablecloth, and how quietly and
daintily she's dipping her cake in her tea. See, she's nodding at the
old fellow as he puts a tiny droplet of rum into the cup. The boy's
munching away at the bread-and-butter. Plump! goes a fid of it into his
tea, which splashes up in his face. The old folks are laughing, and
so's the young lady, she's actually shaking with laughter.'
"'Ah!' said Severin, 'that's just the terrible part of it; to be
obliged to pretend to be interested in every day matters when the heart
is breaking. Indeed, it's easier to laugh, then, than to seem
indifferent.'
"'I do beg, Severin,' said Marzell, 'that you'll be quiet for a little.
If we keep on looking at her in this way we shall get so terribly
interested in her that we shan't see the end of it. Let's talk about
something else.'
"Alexander agreed, and they set to work to carry on a conversation,
lightsomely fluttering from topic to topic. In this they were so far
successful that they talked about utterly trivial matters with a great
expenditure of noise. But everything they said had such a strange
character and peculiar tone, never in the least appropriate to the
subject, that the words seemed to be mere cyphers with some hidden,
mysterious meaning. They determined to celebrate this day of their
reunion with a bowl of cold punch; and at the third glass of it they
fell weeping into each other's arms. The young lady rose, went to the
railing above the stream, and stood there pensively gazing at the
clouds.
'Swift-sailing cloudlets
Borne by the breezes,'
quoted Marzell, in accents of gentle sorrow. But Severin banged his
glass on the table, and spoke of a battle-field which he had seen by
the light of a full-moon, and of the pale corpses that had gazed at him
with eyes instinct with life.
"'God be about us!' cried Alexander. 'What's the matter with you,
brother?'
"The girl sat down again at the table. With one impulse the three
fellows jumped up and ran a sort of race to the rail she had been
leaning on. Alexander depassed the other two by a powerful leap over a
couple of chairs, leant upon the spot where the girl had been standing,
and stuck to it like a leech, though the other two tried to shove him
away, on pretext of embracing him affectionately. Severin spoke with
great solemnity of the clouds and the way they were floating, and
described, louder than was necessary, their shapes and figures.
Marzell, without listening to him, compared Bellevue to a Roman villa;
and, although he had just come back by way of Switzerland, said the
flat, bare, ugly country, with the lightning-conductors on the
powder-magazines--which he called 'masts surmounted by gleaming
stars'--was beautiful and romantic. Alexander contented himself with
saying it was a lovely evening, and the Webersche Zelt a charming spot.
"The family seemed to be preparing for a move. The old gentleman
knocked the ashes out of his pipe, the young lady put away her
knitting, and the boy sought--and called for--his cap, which, after a
little, the busy house poodle (who had been playing with it) brought
and laid down at his feet, and then stood looking up in his face, eager
to be of further service, and anxious to set about it at once (after
the nature of his kind). The friends' conversation subsided in tone.
The family bowed civilly to them as they passed, on which they, ducking
their heads faster and further than the occasion demanded, banged them
all three together with a resounding thwack. Ere they recovered from
this, the family had gone. Then they slunk, in gloomy silence, back to
their cold punch, which they found miserable. The imagery of the clouds
paled into cold darksome mist; Bellevue was Bellevue again, each
lightning-conductor a lightning-conductor, and the Webersche Zelt a
common refreshment shop. And, as there was hardly anybody else left in
the place, an unpleasant chill began to be perceptible, the very pipes
wouldn't keep alight; and the friends crept away, in a conversation
which only flared up for a moment now and then, like a burnt-out
candle. Severin left the others while they were still in the
Thiergarten, as he lived in it at the other end; and Marzell, turning
off at the Friedrich Strasse, left Alexander to wend his way to his
distant dwelling, and the society of his 'walking' aunt. It was on
account of the distance at which they lived from one another that they
had chosen a public place for their meetings, where they might see each
other on particular days of the week. They came, however, more for the
sake of keeping their promise than from any strong desire to see each
other. They found it impossible to hit back again upon the old
confidential tone which had formerly prevailed among them. Each of them
seemed to have something on his mind which destroyed all enjoyment and
freedom, and which he felt bound to keep to himself like some dark and
dangerous secret. In a very short time Severin suddenly disappeared
from Berlin altogether. Soon after that, Alexander complained, in a
highly despairing manner, that he had applied unsuccessfully for an
extension of his leave, and would be obliged to go away before he had
settled all the legal business connected with his heritage affairs, and
say good-bye to his nice, comfortable house.
"'But I thought you found it so uncanny to live in,' said Marzell.
'Isn't it pleasant to get away from the sound of your aunt "walking"
every night at twelve o'clock?'
"'Oh,' said Alexander, 'she's given that up some time ago; and I can
assure you that I regularly long for household ease and quietness, and
I shall most likely apply for my retirement almost at once, so as to
devote myself to art and literature altogether.'
"Indeed, Alexander was obliged to go away within a very few days. Soon
after that, the war broke out again, and Marzell had to rejoin the
army. So that the three friends were once more separated, almost before
they could be said to have met, in the proper sense of the word.
"Two years afterwards, when Whit Monday came round in due course,
Marzell, who had come back a second time from field service, was
standing leaning over the old balustrade, in the Webersche Zelt, and
revolving many things in his mind. Somebody tapped him on the shoulder,
and when he looked round, lo! Alexander and Severin were both there.
"'See how one comes across one's friends!' cried Alexander, joyfully.
'I was strolling along to keep an engagement, thinking of anything
rather than of seeing either of you here. Close past me goes a figure;
I couldn't believe my eyes, but it was Severin. I called to him; he
turned round, and was just as glad to see me as I was to meet him. I
asked him to come to my house, but he said he had an irresistible
desire to come here, so I gave up my engagement, and came here too. His
presentiment was right, you see; we have found you here!'
"'The truth is,' said Severin, 'that I felt quite certain I should find
_you_ here, and I hardly knew how to keep my patience till you came.'
"'Don't you think Severin looks remarkably well?' said Marzell; 'he has
quite got rid of that sickly pallor he used to have, and there are none
of those nasty cloud shadows which used to be upon his brow.'
"'I may say just the same of you, dear Marzell,' said Severin; 'for,
though you didn't look so seedy as I did--and I really was very far
from nourishing, either in body or mind--still, the strange depression
and perturbation of spirit you were in had so completely got the upper
hand with you, that it had turned your bright young face into the
likeness of a crabbed old gentleman's. I suspect both of us have passed
through a good deal of purifying purgatorial fire; and Alexander looks
as if he had done the same, for he had lost all his good-spirits
towards the end, and put on a damned medicine face, where one might
read, "a tablespoonful every hour." Whether it was the aunt that was at
the bottom of it, or, as I shrewdly suspect, something else, I don't
know; at all events, he seems to be a new man now, as well as we.'
"'You're quite right,' said Marzell; 'and, the more I look at the
fellow, the more clearly I see what wonders a comfortable income can
work here below. Had he ever such rosy cheeks?--such a rounded chin?
Don't these sweetly-smiling lips say, "The roast-beef was superior, and
the burgundy first quality"?'
"Severin laughed.
"'Observe,' said Marzell, taking Alexander by the arms and turning him
round, 'what superfine cloth his coat's made of! Look at the dazzling
whiteness of his linen!--that splendid gold chain with about seven
hundred seals! Tell us, lad, how you have managed to turn out such a
terrific swell? It's so unlike what you used to be. One might almost
have said of you, quoting Sir John Falstaff, that you might be wrapped
in an eel-skin; and now you're getting almost pudgy. What does it all
mean?'
"'Well,' said Alexander, blushing a little, 'have you got anything more
to say about me? You know I took my retirement a year ago, and am
leading a happy, comfortable life?'
"'The fact is,' said Severin, who had not been listening much to what
Marzell was saying, but had been standing lost in thought, 'we parted
in a strange sort of fashion; not at all as old friends should.'
"'You, in particular,' said Alexander, 'for you went off without saying
a word to either of us.'
"'Ah!' said Severin, 'I was in the height of a phase of most
extraordinary folly just then, and so were you, and Marzell, too,
for----'
"He suddenly stopped, and the three looked at one another with
sparkling eyes, like people all struck at once by the same idea, like
an electric shock. While Severin had been speaking, they had been going
along arm-in-arm, and they now found they were at the very table where
the beautiful creature who had turned all their heads two years before
had been sitting that day. What their eyes all said was, 'There! there
is the place where she was sitting!' There was a strong feeling as if
she were coming back again. Marzell was beginning to move out the
chairs. However, they went on, and Alexander had a table set out on the
spot where they themselves had been sitting that eventful Whit Monday.
The coffee had come; but neither of them had spoken a word, and
Alexander seemed the most embarrassed of the three. The waiter stood
waiting for his money. He looked in amazement from one of these
speechless customers to another; he rubbed his hands; he coughed; at
last he said, in a feebly voice:
"'Shall I bring some rum, gentlemen?'
"On which they looked in each other's faces, and burst out into fits of
extravagant laughter.
"Oh, Lord!' cried the waiter, starting back a couple of paces, 'they're
all off their heads!'
"Alexander calmed him by paying for the coffee, and, when he had gone,
Severin began:
"'What I was just going to say, we have all represented in pantomime;
and the denouement, with the "moral" of the story as well, were
expressed by that hearty burst of laughter of ours. This day two years
ago, we all fell into a condition of the most egregious folly; we're
ashamed of it now, and completely cured.'
"'The fact was,' said Marzell, 'that that exquisitely beautiful
creature turned all our heads to a frightful extent.'
"'Exquisitely beautiful!' said Alexander; 'exquisitely beautiful,
indeed! But,' he continued, with a little dash of anxiety in his tone,
'you say, Marzell, that we are all quite cured of our folly--_id est_,
of our having lost our hearts to that girl whom we none of us knew
anything about. Now let me ask you one thing. If she were to come back
here again to-day, and sit down in her old place, shouldn't we fall
back into the old folly again, just as we did before?'
"'For my part,' said Severin, 'I'm quite certain, beyond the
possibility of any mistake about it, that I am most thoroughly cured of
it.'
"'And so am I," said Marzell, quite as unmistakeably. Nobody was ever
made such a thorough ass of as I was, when I came to a closer
acquaintance with that incomparable lady.'
"'"Closer acquaintance?--incomparable lady?"' interrupted Alexander
eagerly.
"'Well, yes,' said Marzell; 'it's impossible to deny the fact that that
adventure of ours here, which I might almost call a novelette in one
volume, was followed in my case by a regular screaming farce.'
"'My luck was no better,' said Severin. 'Only, if your novelette was in
one volume, and your farce in one act, all I played in was a little
duodecimo sheet, and a single scene.'
"During this, Alexander's face had got red as fire; the perspiration
stood on his forehead; his breath came short and quick, he ran his
hands through his curly hair; in short, he showed every symptom of the
greatest excitement, and was so clearly unable to retain any control
over himself that Marzell cried:
"What on earth's the matter with you, my dear fellow? What are you
getting into such a state of mind about?'
"He's simply over head and ears in love still with the lady whom we've
given up,' said Severin, laughing, 'and he doesn't believe us, doesn't
think it possible we can have had our little romances or novelettes; at
all events, he's getting infernally jealous. And I'm sure he may save
himself the trouble. I was most abominably treated, at all events.'
"So was I, in a way,' said Marzell, 'and I give you my word that the
spark which fell into my heart that Whit Monday has gone out most
completely, beyond the possibility of ever being kindled again. So you
may be as deeply in love with the lady as ever you like!'
"'So you may as far as I'm concerned too,' said Severin.
"Alexander, now quite reassured again, laughed very heartily, and said:
"'You were right about me, to a certain extent, though you're partly on
a wrong scent, too. So just listen a moment. It is quite true that,
when I remembered that eventful afternoon, that lovely girl, in all her
marvellous attractiveness, came so vividly to my mind's eye that I
fancied I could hear her beautiful voice, and touch her white, delicate
hand as she held it out to me. I felt as though it was to her alone
that I could devote the whole affection of my heart and being, and as
if I never could be happy without her! Now, supposing this to be true,
just think what a terrible thing it would be!'
"'What for? Why on earth?' cried Severin and Marzell, both together.
"'Because I have been married for the last year,' answered Alexander
quietly.
"You married, for the last year?' the friends cried, clapping their
hands, and then shouting with laughter. 'Who is it? Is she
nice-looking? Rich, poor, young, old: how, when, what, where?'
"Alexander stopped his ears. 'I beg of you,' he cried imploringly, as
he leant his left hand on the table, and with the right (on the little
finger whereof the betrothal ring glittered, beside a chrysophrase)
took the spoon and stirred his coffee. 'I implore you to spare me all
these questions, and, if you would do me a real favour, tell me what
happened to you after our adventure here with the lady.'
"'Ay! ay! brother!' said Marzell; 'it strikes me you haven't made a
very good job of it. It isn't Falter's little witch, is it?'
"'If you have any real regard for me,' said Alexander, 'please don't
badger me with questions, but let me hear about your own adventures.'
"'It's the ghost's doing,' said Severin. 'He felt himself compelled to
add some wife or another to his collection of pots and pans and plate
and household linen. So there he sits, with a heart torn with regret
and forbidden love; though that flourishing exterior of his doesn't
quite seem to suit that theory either. What does the aunt, of the
stomach drops, say to it all?'
"'She is highly satisfied,' said Alexander. 'But oh! if you have any
real commiseration for me, if you don't want to embitter for ever this
occasion of our meeting again after all this time, do, for Heaven's
sake, leave off your damnable questions, and begin your stories.'
"They saw that Alexander was so terribly in earnest, that it would be
cruelty to keep him on tenter-hooks any longer. So Marzell at once
began his part of the tale, as follows:
"'We all admit and know that, this day two years ago, a very pretty
girl turned all our heads at the first glance; that we conducted
ourselves as young asses do in such circumstances, and couldn't shake
off the insanity which had come upon us. Night and day, wherever I
went, that girl's image haunted me. She went with me to the War Office,
into the Secretary of State's private sanctum; she came to meet me out
of his writing-table, and confused all my finely turned official
periods with her beautiful eyes, so that people asked me, with
melancholy faces, if the old wound in my head was troubling me again.
To see her again was my goal, the object of all my restless efforts. 1
ran from one street to another like a letter-carrier, from morning till
night. I looked up at all the well-to-do people's windows, all in vain.
Every afternoon I used to come to the Webersche Zelt here.'
"So did I! So did I!' cried Severin and Alexander.
"'I used to see you,' said Marzell, 'but I kept carefully out of your
way.'
"That's exactly what we did, too,' they all cried _in tutti_.' Oh, what
infernal donkeys!'
"'It was no use,' said Marzell. 'But I had neither peace nor rest. The
very idea that she was in love with somebody else already, that I could
but perish in hopeless misery, even if ever I succeeded in making her
acquaintance; that I should only then clearly find out the extent of my
misery, to wit, her inconsolable regret for the man she had lost, her
love for him, and her fidelity--I say, just this very idea was what
fanned the fire within me to a terrific pitch of fury. The tragic
pictures of her condition which Severin painted here for us came back
to my mind, and, while I piled up all imaginable love-misfortunes on to
her head, I seemed to myself to be the more unfortunate of the two. In
my sleepless nights, and on lonely walks, I used to spin the wildest
and most ingenious romances, in which, of course, the unknown lover and
I myself played the leading parts. No scenes were too improbable to be
introduced into these imaginary dramas of mine, and I was immensely
delighted with myself in my character of the hero, resigned to suffer a
hopeless passion. As I have said, I went all over the town, in the most
senseless manner, searching for her who ruled my thoughts and my whole
being. Very well; one forenoon, I found myself in the new street called
"Green Street;" and, as I was strolling along there, deep in thought,
a young gentleman stopped me, took off his hat politely, and asked if I
could tell him where Mr. Asling, the Geheime Rath, lived in that
street. I said I could not. But the name "Asling" struck me, somehow.
"Asling? Asling?" I said to myself. Then, all at once I remembered that
my romantic passion had so occupied my head that I had forgotten all
about a letter for this very Mr. Asling, which a nephew of his (whom I
had left, wounded, in hospital at Deutz) had given me to deliver to
him. I determined to atone for this unpardonable oversight at once. I
saw that a shopkeeper directed the young gentleman to a fine-looking
house just over the way, and I followed him. I was shown into an
anteroom, and the servant begged me to wait there a few minutes, his
master being engaged with a strange gentleman. He left me alone there,
and I was glancing carelessly at the engravings on the wall, when the
door behind me opened, I turned round, and saw _her_! her very self,
the beautiful creature whom we saw in the Thiergarten. I really cannot
describe to you with any clearness what my feelings were, but I know I
could scarcely breathe, couldn't utter a syllable, and felt ready to
fall down at the angel's feet.'
"Ay, ay!' said Alexander, rather astonished; 'then you were really very
seriously in love with her, old fellow?'
"'At all events,' continued Marzell, 'my feelings at that moment were
those of the wildest devotion. My state of consternation and
speechlessness must have been queer enough to see, for Pauline looked
at me as if she were considerably alarmed; and as I couldn't utter a
syllable, and she very naturally thought I must be either a bumpkin or
a born idiot, she said at last, with a delicate smile of irony just
fluttering over her lips, "You're waiting to see my father, are you
not?" The bitter shame that I felt for myself gave me back complete
self-control. I pulled myself together with an effort: I told her my
name with a courteous bow, and explained the commission which I was
entrusted with for the Geheime Rath. On this Pauline cried, loudly and
joyfully:
"'"Oh, how delightful! News of my cousin? You have met him: you know
him; you've spoken to him? I don't believe his letters. He always says
he's almost well. Do, please, let me know the worst. He'll be lame for
life, won't he, poor fellow?"'
"'I assured her, as I was quite justified in doing, that the
bullet-wound which had nearly fractured his kneecap, though it certainly
had been dangerous at one time, and though amputation had been talked of,
was now so very much better that there was no more danger, and that, as
he was a fine healthy young fellow, there was every prospect of his
soon being able to leave off his crutches, which he had been obliged to
use for a month or two.
"'As I got more accustomed to be actually looking at Pauline, to see
her eyes, to be under the magic spell of her presence, and having got a
little of my confidence back, from talking about these matters of fact,
I took heart of grace, and told her all about the action where her
cousin got wounded. We had both been in this action together, serving
in the same battalion, as it happened. You know how one manages, in
such a case, to give a pretty graphic and vivid account of things, and,
indeed, is rather apt to get--more than is quite called for--into that
emphatic and picturesque "manner" which never fails in its effect upon
young women. Of course you will understand that I didn't dwell so much
upon the disposition of the troops, the plan of attack, the "general
idea" of the operations, the feigned attacks, masked batteries,
debouching and development of the cavalry arm, etc., etc., as upon the
minor incidents of a more personal kind, which are what really interest
friends at home. Many an incident which I scarcely noticed when it
happened put on quite an interesting and affecting appearance when I
was telling her about it; and thus it came about that Pauline was
sometimes pale from sorrow and alarm, and at other times smiling gently
through her tears.
"'"Ah!" she said, "when I came in just now, and you were standing so
still and so thoughtfully, looking at that picture of a battle, it must
have been recalling some painful memory to your mind."
"'A red-hot dart seemed to go through my heart at this. I suppose I
must have turned as red as blood.
"'"What I was thinking of," I said, "was probably the happiest moment
of my life, though at that moment I received a mortal wound."
"'"But you've quite got over it, have you not?" she asked with much
anxious sympathy. "I suppose some bullet struck you at the moment of
victory?"
"'I felt a good deal of an ass; but I suppressed this feeling to the
best of my power, and without looking up, but fixing my eyes on the
ground like some naughty schoolboy who has just been having a blowing
up, I said in a feeble voice:
"'"I have had the pleasure of seeing you before."
"'Then the conversation went on in most edifying fashion, Pauline
saying:
"'"Oh, really, I didn't know!"
"'"Yes," I went on; "it was such magnificent spring weather, and I was
enjoying it with two friends of mine, whom I hadn't seen for several
years."
"'"Ah! that must have been very nice," she said.
"'"I saw you, Miss Asling," I said.
"'"Did you really?" she answered. Oh, that must have been in the
Thiergarten."
"'"Yes," said I; "one Whit Monday, in the Webersche Zelt."
"'"Yes, yes; quite right," cried Pauline. "I was there with my father
and mother. There was a great crowd of people. I enjoyed it immensely.
But I don't remember seeing you."
"My former state of idiocy came back upon me in full force, and I was
on the point of saying something very absurd, when the Geheime Rath
came in, to whom Pauline announced with much joy that I had brought a
letter from her cousin. The old gentleman was charmed, and cried:
"'"What! a letter from Leopold! He's alive, then? How's his wound
getting on? When will he be able to be moved?"
"'And with that he took me by the lapels of the coat, and led me into
his own room. Pauline followed; he called for breakfast, and asked
endless questions. In short, I had to stay two good hours, and when at
last I tore myself away with much difficulty (for Pauline sat close
beside me, and kept looking me in the eyes with childlike
unconstraint), he put his arm about my shoulders and begged me to come
in as often as I could--at breakfast-time, for preference.
"'I was now (as often happens in field service) right in the thick of
the fire, without expecting it. If I were to detail to you the tortures
that I underwent; how I often, as if impelled by some irresistible
power, rushed away to that house which appeared to me a place so fatal
to my peace; how I used to drop the bell-handle, without ringing it,
and go home, then go back again, wander round and round the house, and
at last go bursting into it, like a moth which can't keep away from the
candle which is to burn it to a cinder, verily you would laugh, because
you anticipate my admission that at that time I was deliberately making
myself an ass of the very first water. Nearly every evening when I went
I found a number of people there, and I must say that I never was so
happy as I was on these occasions, and in that house; notwithstanding
that, in the character of my own "dæmon" or warning angel, I mentally
gave myself constant digs in the ribs, and cried into my own ears,
"You're a lost man! It's all up with you."
"Every night I went home more hopelessly in love and more intensely
miserable. I soon felt convinced, from Pauline's happy, untroubled
behaviour, that any thing like an unhappy love-affair on her part was
quite out of the question; and frequent allusions of the guests clearly
pointed to the fact that she was engaged, and would soon be married.
There was a great amount of pleasant, jovial fun and merriment about
the whole circle. It was quite a peculiarity of that house; and Asling
himself--a fine, vigorous, jolly fellow, in first-rate health and
well-to-do circumstances--was the leading spirit in all this. Often
there seemed to be schemes of fun and mystification, on an extensive
scale, on the _tapis_, which I, as a comparative outsider, not knowing
the persons and circumstances, wasn't admitted to share in. There was
generally great laughter and amusement going on among the _habitués_
over these affairs. I remember that one time when, after a long
struggle with myself, I had yielded to the temptation and gone in
rather late, I found the old gentleman and Pauline sitting in one of
the windows with a group of young ladies round them. The old gentleman
was reading something out to them; and when he had finished there was a
ringing burst of laughter. To my astonishment he had a big nightcap in
his hand, with an enormous bunch of carnations stuck on to it; this,
after saying a word or two more, he put on his head, and nodded out of
the window with it several times, moving his head up and down, at which
they all burst out laughing again tremendously.'
"'Damnation! damnation!' cried Severin, getting up from his chair, and
walking about.
"'What's the matter with you?' cried the other two anxiously.
"'Nothing! oh, nothing!' he said; 'I'm all right. Go on, my dear
fellow, go on, that's all. Let's hear the rest of it.'
"He repeated this request, not without laughing bitterly within
himself. Marzell went on:
"'I don't know whether it was from my having been a comrade of his
nephew, or because the curious state I always was in on account of my
continual condition of excitement endowed me with some odd interest in
his eyes. But at all events the old gentleman soon took a great liking
to me, and I should have been utterly blind had I not observed that
Pauline evidently cared much more for me than for any of the other
fellows who came about her.'
"'Really! really!' said Alexander, in a tone of anxiety.
"'There could be no doubt about it,' continued Marzell, and no wonder
that I should have got nearer to her liking; because, like any girl
with a head on her shoulders, she couldn't, with her delicate tact,
help hearing in every thing that I said (or did) a full-choired hymn in
praise of her marvellous attractiveness, my deepest devotion to that
whole nature of hers, instinct with the most passionate fervour. She
would often let her hand remain in mine for minutes, she would return
my gentle pressure, and, once, when the girls were all waltzing to the
rather wheezy old piano, she came into my arm, and I felt her bosom
rising and falling, and her sweet breath on my cheek. I was beside
myself. Fire burned on my lips. I should have kissed her in a minute.'
"'The devil! the devil!' roared Alexander, jumping up like a man
possessed, and grabbing hold of his hair with both hands.
"'For shame! for shame! remember you're a married man,' said Severin,
pushing him back into his chair again. 'I'll be hanged if you're not
daft about Pauline at this moment, married though you be. Think shame
of yourself, wretched Benedict, with your neck fast in the yoke.'
"'Well! go on with your story,' said Alexander, in an inconsolable
tone, 'we shall hear of fine goings on, I can see.'
"From what I have told you,' continued Marzell, 'you can form some idea
of my state of mind. I was torn by a thousand passions, and worked
myself up to the highest pitch of heroism. I made up my mind that I
would quaff the brimming cup of poison, and then go and breathe out
what was left to me of life far, far away from the beloved one. In
other words, I meant to tell her I loved her, and then avoid her, till
the wedding day, at all events; for then I meant to do as the heroes in
so many novels do, that is, look on at the ceremony concealed behind a
pillar in the church, and after the fatal "yes" fall down at full
length, with a tremendous crash, senseless on the floor; be carried out
by the sympathizing spectators, and so forth. Possessed with this idea,
I went to the house earlier than usual one day, like a man out of his
mind. I found Pauline alone in the drawing-room, and, before she had
time to be frightened at my agitated condition, I fell at her feet,
seized her hands, pressed them to my heart, vowed that I loved her to
distraction, and, pouring out a flood of tears, said I was the most
miserable of mankind, doomed to a cruel death, as she had given her
heart and promised her hand to another, before we had met. Pauline let
me rage out what I had to say; then, with a charming smile, she made me
rise and sit down by her on the sofa, and then she asked me, in a voice
of gentle concern:
"'"What's the matter with you? Please calm yourself, dear Mr. Marzell,
you're in a state which terrifies me."
"'I repeated all I had said before, more coherently however. Then
Pauline said:
"'"But how did you ever get it in your head that I'm in love with
anybody, or engaged to be married? There's not a word of truth in
either the one story or the other, I can assure you."
"'I maintained, on the other hand, that I had been quite certain ever
since the first moment I had set eyes on her that she was in love; and
as she kept pressing me to explain more clearly, I told her the whole
story of that first Monday of ours in the Webersche Zelt. Scarcely had
I finished it when Pauline got up and danced about the room with shouts
of laughter, crying:
"'"Oh! good gracious! It's too delicious altogether! Well! what dreams!
what ludicrous absurdities to take in one's head! Oh! I never heard
anything like it! it's really beyond everything!"
"'I sat nonplussed; Pauline came back to me, took me by the hands, and
shook me by them, as one does to rouse a person from a deep sleep.
"'"Now please to listen to what I'm going to tell you," she said,
trying hard, but not very successfully, to restrain her laughter. "The
young man whom you took for a messenger of love was a shopman from
Bramigk, the draper's; the note he gave me was from Bramigk himself.
He, like the most charming and courteous of shopkeepers as he is, had
promised to get me a hat from Paris (I had admired the pattern when I
saw it), and to let me know as soon as it arrived. I wanted it
particularly to wear the evening of that Whit Monday when we were all
in the Webersche Zelt. I wanted to put it on to go to a singing tea in;
you know what we call a singing tea here? A place where people sing in
order to drink tea, and drink tea for the purpose of singing. Very
well! The hat had come, but it was so badly made that it had to be all
altered before I could wear it. This was the fatal news that made me
shed a tear or two. I didn't want my father to see that it had made me
cry, but he soon found out what I was vexed about, and chaffed me
unmercifully on the subject. You know I have a habit of holding my
handkerchief to my face, as I did that day, when anything annoys me?"
"Pauline burst out laughing again. But a bitter frost seemed to go
through my veins and marrow, and a voice within me seemed to cry,
"Wretched, shallow, disgusting dress-worshipper!"
"'Come, come!' interrupted Alexander, 'that's terribly severe, and not
true of her. I call it going too far.... However, let's hear the rest
of your story.'
"'My feelings,' said Marzell, 'I really cannot describe to you. I had
awakened from the mocking dream in which some wicked demon had held me
enthralled. I felt, now, that I had never really been in love with
Pauline, but had only been the sport of some incomprehensible
self-mystification. I could scarcely find a syllable to say; my whole
body shook and trembled with rage and vexation. When Pauline, in alarm,
asked what was the matter with me, I pretended that I was taken
suddenly unwell, and I fled, like a hunted deer, out of the house for
ever. As I was crossing the square of the Gendarmerie, I saw a body of
volunteers falling in to march off and join the army. This showed me
clearly the course I ought to adopt, for the calming of my mind, and to
forget this miserable business. Instead of going home, I went off and
enrolled myself for service in the field. Everything was arranged in a
couple of hours' time. I ran home, put on my uniform, packed my
knapsack, took my musket and bayonet, and went to hand over to the
charge of my landlady what things I was going to leave behind. While I
was talking to her, I heard some commotion going on on the stairs
outside.
"'"Ah! they're bringing him down," said the landlady, and opened the
door. I saw Nettelmann, the madman, coming down between two keepers. He
had on a lofty crown of gilt paper, and was carrying a long ruler, with
a gilt apple on the top of it.
"'"He thinks he's King of Amboyna again, now," the landlady whispered,
"and he's been doing such extraordinary things of late that his brother
has had to have him taken to the asylum."
"'He recognized me; smiled down at me with proud benignity, and said,
"Now that the Bulgarians have been vanquished by our trusty General
Tellheim, we are returning to our capital."
"Though I wasn't making any attempt to speak to him, he motioned me to
silence with a wave of his hand, and said:
"'Enough, enough! we are aware what you would say, good sir. No more!
We are satisfied with you; you have done your duty. Accept this trifle
as a mark of our favour and esteem."
"'With which he took two or three cloves from his waistcoat-pocket and
put them into my hand. The men put him into a carriage which was
waiting. The tears came to my eyes as I saw him driven off.
"'"I hope we soon shall see you back again, safe and sound, and covered
with glory," said the landlady, shaking me warmly by the hand. With
many a painful thought in my tormented breast, I ran out into the
night, and soon came up with the party of my comrades, who were singing
cheery soldier-songs as they marched along.'
"'Then,' said Alexander, 'you feel certain that your love for Pauline
was a mere self-mystification?'
"'As sure as that I'm alive,' answered Marzell; 'and it won't require
much knowledge of mankind to convince you that my rapid change of
sentiment, when I found I hadn't a rival, would have been impossible
otherwise. Moreover, I am seriously in love now; and although I laughed
at the notion of your being married, because the idea of you in the
capacity of Paterfamilias seems rather too funny, somehow (I hope you
won't be vexed at my saying so), I am expecting very soon to lead a
darling girl home as my bride, in a fairer land than ours.'
"'I'm very glad, and I give you my heartiest congratulations, my dear,
dear old fellow,' said Alexander, quite delighted.
"'See how pleased he is that somebody else is going to follow his own
absurd example,' said Severin. 'As far as I'm concerned, the idea of
marriage fills me with absolute horror. However, I should like to tell
you the adventure I had with Pauline; it will amuse you.'
"'Well, what had you to do with Pauline?' asked Alexander, in an
irritable tone, 'We must hear that.'
"'It didn't amount to very much,' said Severin, 'compared to Marzell's
long tale, with all its psychological remarks and illustrations. Mine
is a very commonplace piece of fun. You know that, about this time two
years ago, I was in a very strange condition altogether. Probably it
was the state of my health, which was very queer at that time, which
had converted me into a terribly sensitive, overstrung, fanciful
spirit-seer. I was always floating on a boundless ocean of dreams and
presentiments. I thought I understood the language of birds, like a
Persian Mage. I heard voices in the rustling of the trees, sometimes of
warning, sometimes of consolation. I saw my own image wandering in the
clouds of the sky. Very well! It happened one day, when I was sitting
in a lonely part of the Thiergarten on a bank of grass, that I got into
a condition which I can only compare to that species of delirium which
one often feels just when one is falling asleep. I seemed to be
suddenly surrounded with the scent of a most delicious rose, but at the
same time I became aware that this rose odour really was a beautiful
being, whom I had long, though unconsciously, loved with the deepest
and most passionate devotion. I strove to see her with my corporeal
eyes; but it seemed to me that a great, dark-red carnation was laid on
my brow, and the scent of this carnation burned away the rose perfume,
as with a scorching ray, benumbing my senses so that a bitter sense of
pain took possession of me, which strove to find expression in accents
of wild anguish. Through the trees came sighing a sound like that when
the evening wind touches the Æolian Harp with a gentle waft of its
pinions, and breaks the spell which holds the music prisoned and
sleeping within the strings. But this was not _my_ sound. It was that
of the beautiful being who was stricken to death (as I was also) by the
hostile contact of the carnation. If I may put this vision of mine into
the form of an Indian myth, I might say that the rose and the carnation
represented, for me, life and death; and all the absurdities which I
said and perpetrated this day two years ago were chiefly due to the
circumstance that in that beautiful creature, who was sitting in that
chair there, and who has since assumed the corporeal form of Pauline
Asling, I fancied I recognized her whose love had disclosed itself to
me in the form of the rose perfume. You remember that I got away from
you as soon as I could, leaving you in the Thiergarten. A sure
presentiment told me that if I made an effort, and got quickly through
the Leipzig gate, and then to Unter den Linden, I should meet the
family, at the slow rate they were walking at, somewhere near the
castle; so I ran as hard as I could; and I did meet them, very near the
place where I had thought I should. I followed them at a little
distance, and found out, that same evening, where the beautiful
creature lived. You will probably laugh when I tell you that I thought
I could scent a mysterious perfume of rose and carnation, actually in
Green Street itself. For the rest, I conducted myself like some boy in
a state of calf-love, who destroys the finest trees, contrary to the
forest regulations, by carving interlaced initials on them, and carries
about a withered petal, which the beloved has dropped, next his heart,
wrapped in seven pieces of paper. That is, I used to pass under her
window twelve, fifteen, or twenty times a-day; and if I saw her at it,
I would stare at her, without any salutation, in a way which must have
been funny enough. Heaven only knows how I arrived at the conviction
that she understood me, and was fully conscious of the psychical
influence which she had exerted on me in that flower-vision, and
recognized in me him over whom the hostile carnation had cast a dark
pall as he was striving to clasp her, who had thus risen as a planet of
love in the depths of his being. That very day I sat down and wrote to
her. I told her my vision; how I had then seen her at the Webersche
Zelt, and known her as the being of my dream. I said I knew she fancied
she loved another, and that in this connection something disastrous had
come into her life. There could be no doubt, I said, that she, like me,
had become aware of our intimate psychic relation, and our mutual
devotion, in some dream-consciousness such as my own; though perhaps it
was but now that my vision had clearly revealed to her all that had
been slumbering in the depths of her nature; but, in order that this
might come, joyfully and gladsomely, into actual life, so that I might
approach her with a heart at rest, I implored her to be at the window
the next day, at twelve o'clock, and, as an unmistakeable symbol of our
happy love, to wear fresh-blown roses on her breast. Should she,
however, be irresistibly drawn away from her _rapport_ with me, through
hostile deception, by some other--if she rejected me without remead--I
asked her to wear carnations instead of roses. The letter was probably
a mad and senseless affair. That I am prepared to admit now. I sent it
by such a trusty messenger that I knew it would reach the proper hands.
Full of inward anxiety, and with a heavy heart, I went the next day at
twelve o'clock to Green Street. I neared the house. I saw a white form
at the window. My heart throbbed so that it almost burst my bosom. I
came in front of the house. The old gentleman--he was the white
figure--opened the window. He had a great white nightcap on, with a large
bunch of carnations stuck in front of it. He nodded in a friendly way,
so that the flowers waved and quivered; he wafted kisses of his hand at
me, with the sweetest smiles. Just then I caught sight of Pauline, as
well, peeping out from behind the curtains. She was laughing! I had
been standing motionless, like a man under a spell; but when I saw her,
I rushed away like a mad creature. There! you can understand, if you
had any doubt about it before, that this cured me completely; but the
shame of it would not let me rest. As Marzell did later, I went off at
once to join the troops on active service, and nothing but the
adversity of fate prevented us from meeting again.'
"Alexander laughed immoderately over the humorous old gentleman.
"'Then this,' said Marzell, 'was what he was after that time when I
found him with the nightcap; and of course it was your letter that he
was reading to the girls.'
"'Of course,' said Severin; 'and although I can see the absurdity of
the thing now, and think the old gentleman was perfectly right, and
feel really obliged to him for the drasticity and appropriateness of
the dose of medicine he made me swallow, still that adventure of mine
causes me the most intense annoyance, and, to this hour, I can't endure
the sight of a carnation.'
"'Well,' said Marzell, 'we've both been pretty severely punished for
our folly. Alexander, who doesn't seem to have fallen in love with
Pauline till we had gone through with our share of the business, turns
out to have been the wisest of the three: and, for that reason, he has
kept clear of further absurdities, and has none to tell us about.'
"'But, at all events,' said Severin, 'he can tell us how he came by his
wife.'
"Really, my dear old fellow,' said Alexander, 'there's very little to
tell; except that I saw her, fell in love with her, and married her.
But there's one thing connected with it which may interest you, because
my aunt has to do with it.'
"'Well! well! tell us!' they both cried.
"'You will remember,' said Alexander, 'that at that time I left Berlin,
and my house--uncanny though it was to me by reason of my aunt's
"walking" in it at night--greatly against my will. The connection of
all these matters was as follows. One fine morning, after T had been
terribly disturbed the whole of the night by tappings and rappings in
all directions--which came into the room where I was sleeping, this
time--I was lying in the window seat, quite tired and exhausted, and
excessively out of temper and annoyed with the whole affair. I was
looking out into the street mechanically, when, right opposite, in the
big house over the way, a window opened, and a most beautiful girl in a
pretty morning dress looked out. Much as I had admired Pauline, I
thought her whom I then saw more charming still. I couldn't withdraw my
eyes from her. At last she looked down; she couldn't help seeing me. I
made her a greeting, and she returned it with indescribable
pleasantness of manner. I found out from Mistress Anne who the people
who lived there were, and I made up my mind that I must make their
acquaintance somehow, so as to get nearer to her. It was an odd thing
that, as soon as my thoughts were occupied with this young lady, and I
was wholly sunk in sweet love-dreams about her, all the supernatural
noises connected with my aunt ceased. Mistress Anne, whom I made as
much of as ever I could, and who had quite got over her dread of me,
often told me a good deal about my aunt. She was inconsolable because
the poor soul, who had led such a pious, and exemplary life, could find
no rest in her grave, and she laid all the blame upon the man who had
treated her so cruelly, and the insuperable disappointment she had
suffered on her wedding day--that was to have been. I told her, with
much joy, that I never heard anything at night now.
"'"Ah!" she cried, with tears in her voice, "if the Feast of the
Invention of the Cross were only over!"
"'"What is there specially about the Feast of the Invention of the
Cross?" I quickly asked.
"'"Oh, good gracious!" she answered, "don't you know? That was to have
been her marriage day. She died on the third of April, you remember.
That day week she was buried. The executor put seals on all the rooms
except the big drawing-room and the closet off it; so I had to live in
them, though I felt it terribly, I couldn't tell why. When day was
dawning on the morning of the Feast of the Invention of the Cross, I
felt an icy hand on my forehead, and distinctly heard your aunt's voice
say 'Get up, Anne! Get up! it's time for you to dress me; the
bridegroom's coming.' I jumped out of bed, terribly frightened, and
hurried on my clothes. Everything was silent, and there was only a cold
air moving through the room. Mimi kept on whimpering and whining, and
even Hans--contrarily to cat-nature--groaned, and pressed himself,
frightened, into corners. Then presses and cupboards seemed to be being
opened, and there was the sound of the rustling of a silk dress, and a
voice singing a morning hymn. I heard all this distinctly, master, but
I saw nothing. Terror nearly overmastered me, but I knelt down in a
corner and prayed fervently. Then a small table seemed to be being
moved, and glasses and teacups set out on it; footsteps went up and
down the room. I couldn't stir, and--what more shall I say?--I heard
the mistress going about, just as she always had done on that unlucky
day, sobbing and sighing; till the clock struck ten, when I distinctly
heard the words 'Go to your bed, Anne; it's all over now.' Then I fell
down insensible, and the people found me lying there in the morning
when they broke open the door, for they thought something must have
happened to me as they had seen or heard nothing of me. But I've never
told anybody about it except you."
"'From my own experience, I couldn't doubt that everything had happened
as the old woman described it, and I was glad I hadn't arrived sooner,
so as to have had to go through it myself. It was just at this very
time, when the ghost seemed to be laid, and I was living in the
sweetest of hopes and anticipations, that I was obliged to leave
Berlin; and that was the cause of my annoyance, which you noticed
yourselves. But before six months were over I had taken my retirement,
and then I came back as quickly as possible. I very soon managed to
make the acquaintance of the family over the way, and I found the young
lady, who had seemed so fascinating at first sight, to be even more
charming and attractive in every respect on closer acquaintance, so
that I felt that the happiness of my life was wholly bound up in her. I
don't know quite why, but I always thought she was in love with someone
else; and this opinion was confirmed once when the conversation
happened to turn on a certain young gentleman, at the mention of whom
tears came to her eyes and she rose and left the room. Still, I put no
constraint on my feelings, but, without actually saying anything to
her, I allowed her to see the affection which fettered me to her. She
appeared to like me better every day, and to be much gratified with my
homage, which took the form of a thousand little attentions calculated
to please her.'
"'Never,' cried Marzell, interrupting Alexander in his story 'never
should I have believed that this inexperienced, uncouth sort of a
fellow would have been capable of all that. He's a spirit-seer and a
lover _à la mode_ rolled into one. But now that he tells us about it, I
believe it, and see him pervading all the shops to get some piece of
head gear the young lady had a fancy for, or rushing into Bouché's, out
of breath, to buy the finest roses and carnations----'
"To the devil with these damnable flowers!' cried Severin.
"Alexander went on with his story:
"'Don't suppose I made her any valuable presents; I knew better. That
wasn't the sort of thing to go down in that house, I soon saw. What I
did was to associate apparently unimportant civilities and attentions
with myself, personally. I never appeared without bringing some pattern
she had wanted, or a new song, or some book which she hadn't seen, or
something of the kind. If I didn't call every forenoon for half an hour
or so, I was missed. In short, why should I bother you with tiresome
details? My relations with her passed into that pleasant phase of
confidential intimacy which leads to love-avowal, and to marriage. But
I wished to get rid of the very shadow of the last remaining cloud,
and, therefore, in a pleasant hour I spoke, straight out, of my
foregone conclusion that she either then liked somebody else, or had
done so previously; and I mentioned all the circumstances which led me
to this conclusion, speaking particularly of the young gentleman, the
mention of whom had brought tears to her eyes.
"'"I must confess to you," she said, "that longer intercourse with that
gentleman--whom a mere chance brought to the house, as a perfect
stranger might have been dangerous to my peace of mind, and, indeed, I
did feel a strong regard for him growing in me; and that is why I am
always so sorry, when I think of the terrible misfortune which parted
us, that I can't help crying."
"'"The terrible misfortune which parted you?" I inquired.
"'"Yes," she said; "I never knew any man whose conversation, and
intellect, and whole character, had such a power over me, altogether.
But I couldn't deny, what my father always said, that he was
continually in a most strangely excited condition. This I attributed to
causes which we knew nothing about, perhaps some deep impression made
upon his mind by something that had happened to him during the war,
which he had been serving in; though my father thought drink was the
cause of it. But I was right, as the event proved. One day he found me
alone, and exhibited a state of mind, which I at first took for an
outburst of the most passionate affection. But by-and-by, when he ran
away, trembling in every limb as with a frost, and uttering
unintelligible cries, I could only conclude it was insanity, and so it
was, poor fellow! He had once happened to mention his address, and I
remembered it. After we had seen nothing of him for some weeks, my
father sent there to make inquiries. The landlady--or rather, the
porter who waited on the lodgers--told our servant that he had gone mad
some time before, and been taken to the asylum. I suppose it must have
been lottery speculations which turned his head, for it seems he
thought he was king of the Ambé."'
"'Good gracious!' cried Marzell, 'that must have been Nettelmann.
Ambé--Amboyna.'
"'It may have been some confusion,' said Severin under his breath. 'I
seem to see daylight through it, but go on, please.'
"Alexander looked at Severin with a sad smile, and then continued:
"'My mind was now at ease, and soon the young lady and I were engaged,
and the wedding day fixed. I wanted to sell my house, for the ghostly
noises were still heard in it now and then. But my father-in-law
advised me not to do so, and so it came about that I told him the whole
story. He is a jovial sort of man, full of vital energy; but he grew
deeply thoughtful over this, and spoke about it in a way that I hadn't
expected.
"'"People used to have a pious simple faith," he said. "We believed in
another world, but we admitted the feebleness of our senses. Then came
'enlightenment,' and made everything so very clear and enlightened,
that we can see nothing for excess of light, and go banging our noses
against the first tree we come to in the wood. We insist, now-a-days,
on grasping the other world with stretched-out arms of flesh and bone.
Keep you the house, and leave the rest to me."
"'I was astonished when he settled that the marriage should take place
in the drawing-room of my house, and on the day of the Feast of the
Invention of the Cross; and still more when he had everything arranged
just as it had been on the celebrated day of my aunt's marriage--that
was to have been. Mistress Anne crept about, in whispered prayer, her
face contracted with anxious alarm. The bride came in her wedding
dress, the clergyman arrived nothing out of the common was to be heard
or seen. But when the blessing was pronounced, a gentle sigh seemed to
pass through the room; and the bride, and I myself, and every one
present declared that at that instant we all felt an indescribable
sense of happiness strike through us like an electric spark. Since that
moment there never has been the slightest trace of anything haunting
me, except to-day, when thinking vividly of the charming Pauline, did
bring a haunting something into my married happiness."
"This Alexander said with an odd smile, and looking round him.
"'Oh! you donkey!' said Marzell. 'I hope she may not turn up here
to-day. I really shouldn't like to answer for the consequences.'
"Meanwhile a good many pleasure-seekers had come into the grounds, and
taken their places at various tables. But the one where the Aslings had
been sitting on that memorable day two years ago was still unoccupied.
"'There's a very distinct presentiment at work within me,' said
Severin. 'I quite expect to see that place there occupied by ----'
"He stopped, for as he spoke, behold! Geheime Rath Asling appeared,
with his wife on his arm; Pauline came after them, looking the picture
of happiness and beauty--in all other respects exactly the Pauline of
two years back. Just as was the case then, she was looking back over
her shoulder, as if expecting to see somebody. She caught sight of
Alexander, who had risen from his chair.
"'Ah!' she cried, running up to him joyfully. 'Here you are already!'
"He took her hand, and said to Marzell and Severin:
"'Dear old friends! this is my darling wife, Pauline!'"
The Brethren were much pleased with Ottmar's story.
"You had special reasons for laying the scene of your story in Berlin,"
said Theodore, "and giving the names of streets, squares, etc. But I
think it is a good thing, as a general rule, to indicate localities in
this way. It not only brings in an element of historical truth, which
helps a sluggish fancy; but--at all events for people who know the
places--the story gains greatly in life and vigour."
"Our friend hasn't managed to steer altogether clear of that ironical
bent of his, though, which is especially strong in all that concerns
the fairer sex," said Lothair. "However, I make no attack on him upon
that score."
"Merely a pinch of salt," said Ottmar, "to season rather meagre fare.
For the fact is, I felt it as I read the story--it's too prosaic--too
much about everyday matters."
"As Theodore approves of naming the scene of action," said Cyprian; "as
Ottmar thinks his subject-matter over-prosaic; and if Lothair will
allow me a pinch of irony now and then, I'll read you a story which
suggested itself to me when I was living in Dantzic."
He read:--
"THE ARTUS HOF.
"Doubtless, kind reader, you have often heard a great deal about the
fine old business town of Dantzic. And, probably, you know, from
reading of them, all about the 'lions' of the place. But I should be
better pleased could I think that you had been there, in person, at
some time or other, and had actually seen, with your own eyes, the
wonderful hall into which I fain would take you; I mean the 'Artus
Hof.'
"In the mid-day hours, a throng of business men, of all nations and
conditions, goes surging up and down in it, with a confused uproar of
voices which deafens the ear. But, no doubt, the time when--if you were
in Dantzic--you would best like to go into it would be after the
exchange hours are over, when the business men are gone to their
mid-day meal, and only a few rare ones now and then cross the hall at
intervals with preoccupied faces--there is a passage through it,
leading from one street to another--for then a magic half-light comes
stealing through the dim, ancient windows, and all the curious frescoes
and carvings which ornament the walls seem to come to life, and begin
to move. Stags with great antlers, and other strange animals, gaze down
at you with gleaming eyes, so that you don't half care to look at them.
And the more the light fades, the more awe-inspiring grows the marble
statue of the king in the centre of the hall. The large picture of the
Virtues and the Vices (whose names are written beside them) loses a
good deal of its moral effect: for the Virtues soar more irrecognizably
aloft, half hidden in grey clouds; and the Vices--beautiful women in
shining raiment--come forward enticingly, and seem to be trying to lure
you from the path of duty, whispering to you in accents sweet and low.
Wherefore, you turn from them to the belt of colour which goes nearly
round the walls, on which you see long trains of soldiers, in various
costumes of the old Imperial-City times, going marching along. Worthy
burgomasters, with shrewd, significant faces, ride at their head on
spirited horses, richly caparisoned. The drummers and fifers, and the
Hallebardiers march along so briskly and bravely that you begin to hear
the stirring martial music, and expect them to go tramping out at the
great window yonder on to the market-place--looking at all this, you
would, if you were a draughtsman, set to work and make a pen-and-ink
sketch of that fine stately Burgomaster there, with the strikingly
handsome page in attendance on him. There is always plenty of pens,
ink, and paper on the tables--provided at the public expense for the
merchants' use--so that you would not be able to resist the temptation.
"There would be no objection to your so employing your time, kind
reader; but that was by no means the case with Traugott, the young
merchant, who was continually getting into the most terrible scrapes on
this very account.
"'Write off at once and advise our correspondent in Hamburg of the
day's transactions, Herr Traugott,' said Elias Roos, the head of a
flourishing firm, of which Traugott had just been admitted a partner,
being moreover engaged to Roos's only daughter Christina. Traugott with
some difficulty found a vacant place at the crowded tables, took a
sheet of paper, dipped his pen in the ink, and was just going to begin
with a fine caligraphic flourish, when--as he was rapidly revolving in
his mind what he was going to say--he lifted his eyes mechanically to
the wall above him.
"Now, chance had so ordained matters that he was sitting just in front
of a certain little group of two figures, the sight of which always
caused him a strange, inexplicable sense of sorrow. It represented a
grave-looking, almost sombre man, with a dark, curling beard,
handsomely dressed, riding a black horse, with a page at his bridle
whose masses of hair and richly-tinted costume gave him almost the
appearance of a girl. The face and figure of the man caused Traugott a
certain feeling akin to fear, but a world of sweet presage streamed
forth upon him from the face of the page. Somehow he never could
withdraw his eyes from this couple whenever he happened to look at
them; consequently, instead of writing the Hamburg letter as he ought
to have done, he kept gazing at these two figures, and drawing with his
pen on the paper before him, without observing what he was about. When
this had been going on for some little time, somebody tapped him on the
shoulder from behind, and said, in rather a hollow voice:
"'Good! very good! I like that; it promises well!'
"Traugott, waking from his dream, turned sharply round, and felt like a
man struck by a thunderbolt. Astonishment, alarm, rendered him
speechless; for he found himself staring into the face of the very man
who was represented in the fresco on the wall above him. It was he who
had spoken the words, and beside him stood the beautiful page, smiling
at Traugott as if with inexpressible affection.
"'It is they in the body,' was the thought which flashed through his
mind. 'They'll throw off those ugly cloaks directly, and appear in
their beautiful antique costume.'
"The seething masses of people were hurrying to and fro, and the two
strange figures were speedily lost in the throng. But Traugott stood in
the same spot, with his letter of advice in his hand, till the business
hours were long over, and only one or two people passed at intervals
through the hall. At last he saw Herr Elias Roos, coming up to him with
two strange gentlemen.
"'Well, Traugott,' said Elias Roos, 'what are you cogitating about here
so late in the afternoon? Have you sent off the Hamburg advices all
right?'
"Without thinking what he was doing, Traugott handed him the sheet of
paper which he had in his hand. On seeing it, Elias Roos struck his
clenched fists together over his head, stamped with his right foot,
slightly at first, then very violently, and shouted, till the hall
resounded:
"'Oh! good Lord! Oh! good Lord! Stupid, childish nonsense! Here's a
partner for you! Here's a precious son-in-law! Damnation, sir, are you
out of your senses? The letter of advice, the letter of advice? Oh
God--the _post_!'
"Herr Elias nearly went into a fit with anger. The two strangers smiled
at this singular letter of advice, which certainly wasn't of much use
as such, as it stood. Immediately after the words 'Referring to your
esteemed order of the 20th instant,' Traugott had made a firm, bold
outline sketch of the two striking figures of the old man and the page.
The strange gentlemen strove to calm Herr Elias, addressing him in the
most soothing tones; but he shoved his wig into various positions,
banged his cane on the floor, and cried:
"'The devil's in the fellow! Had a letter of advice to write; instead
of that, goes and draws pictures! Five hundred pounds gone!--pht!'--he
blew through his fingers; and then repeated, in a weeping tone,
'Five--hundred--pounds!'
"'Don't distress yourself, Herr Roos,' said, at last, the elder of the
two strangers; 'the post is gone, certainly, but I am sending a courier
off to Hamburg in an hour's time. He can take your letter of advice,
and it will reach your correspondent sooner that it would have done by
the regular mail.'
"'Most incomparable of men!' cried Herr Elias, with full sunshine
restored to his face.
"Traugott had recovered from his astonishment, and was hastening to the
table to write the advice; but Herr Elias shoved him away, saying,
through his teeth, with most diabolical looks:
"Don't trouble yourself, my lad!'
"While Herr Elias was writing busily, the elder of the strangers went
up to Traugott, who was standing silent and abashed, and said:
"'You seem to be a little out of your element here, my dear sir! It
would never have occurred to a real man of business to sketch figures
when he ought to have been writing a letter of advice.'
"This Traugott could not gainsay. Much astonished, himself, at what had
occurred, he said:
"'I can't quite make it out. I've written plenty of letters of advice.
It's only now and then that I make one of these mistakes.'
"'My dear sir,' said the stranger, with a smile, 'I must say I don't
think it seems to be a mistake at all. I should rather be inclined to
suppose that very few of your letters of advice are worth as much as
this admirable, accurate, and powerful outline sketch. There is true
genius in it!'
"With which he took the paper from Traugott, folded it carefully up,
and put it in his pocket. This convinced Traugott firmly that he had
done something much better than writing a letter of advice. A new
spirit awoke within him; and when Elias Roos, who had finished his
letter, and was still very much out of temper, cried, 'That nonsense of
yours very nearly cost me £500,' Traugott answered him, louder and more
firmly than usual, 'Don't go on making such a fuss, or I shall have to
bid you good-morning, and write no more of your damned letters of
advice.'
"Herr Elias set his wig straight with both hands, stared at Traugott,
and said:
"What nonsense you're talking, partner; you can't be serious,
son-in-law?'
"The elder of the strangers intervened, and it required very few words
to wholly re-establish the peace between them. Then they all went to
dinner at Elias Roos's house.
"Christina received them in a beautifully-fitting dress, which set off
her well-developed, pretty figure to advantage. She wielded the massive
soup-ladle with great skill.
"I suppose I ought to describe the five people at this dinner-table;
but Traugott's adventures are waiting to be told, and such pictures of
said people as I could sketch would be very hasty. You are aware that
Elias Roos wears a round wig, and I could add little more, as, from
what he has said, you can see before you the little, stoutish man in
his leather-coloured suit with gilt buttons. Of Traugott I have much to
say, because this is his story which I am telling, and he is the
principal character in it. If it is true that our thoughts, words, and
works--coming, as they do, from the inner depths of our natures--do so
shape and model the outward man that there results a certain marvellous
harmony of the whole--not to be explained, only to be felt--which we
term 'character,' Traugott's appearance will be plain to you from my
story without any further description. If this is not the case, all
further description would be useless, and you can take this tale as not
read. The two strange gentlemen are uncle and nephew, well-to-do
business men, and 'friends'--that is to say, business connections--of
Roos's. They come from Koenigsberg, wear English clothes, carry about
mahogany boot-jacks from London, are connoisseurs in the arts, and,
taking them all round, persons of much cultivation. The uncle is making
a collection of pictures, which is why he pocketed Traugott's sketch.
"As I perceive that Christina will speedily vanish from my story, I had
better give a few indications of what she is like before she makes her
exit. She is of medium height, with a finely-developed figure; about
two or three and twenty, with a round face, a short nose, slightly
turned up, and kindly light-blue eyes, which say, with a charming
smile, to every man she meets, 'I'm going to get married very soon
(don't much mind to whom). She has a beautiful, fair complexion; hair
not over red; most kissable lips, and a mouth rather too large, which
she has an odd way of drawing on one side, though two rows of pearls
are thereby rendered visible. If the next house were on fire, and the
flames were catching the room, she would just, quickly, feed her canary
and put away the clothes from the wash, and then go and tell her father
that the house was on fire. No almond-tart ever came to grief in her
hands, and her butter-sauce is always of exactly the right thickness,
because she always stirs it from left to right, never the other way. As
Elias Roos has just poured out the last of the bottle into old Franz's
glass, I further remark, hastily, that it is because he's going to
marry her that she's so fond of Traugott; for what in the world would
become of her if she weren't to get married? After dinner Roos proposed
to the strangers a walk round the walls. How gladly would Traugott have
made his escape and been by himself! Never had he known anything like
the thoughts, feelings, and sensations which he had experienced to-day.
Escape he could not, however, for just as he was slipping out at the
door, without even kissing Christina's hand, Herr Elias seized him by
the coat-tails, crying, 'Come, partner; you're not going to give us the
slip, are you, son-in-law?' So he had to stay.
"A well known professor of natural philosophy was of opinion that
Nature, in her capacity of a skilled experimentalist, has somewhere or
other set up a tremendous electrical machine, from which mysterious
conductors stretch all through our lives; and, though we avoid them and
keep clear of them as well as we can, at some given moment or other we
can't help treading on them, and then the flash and the shock dart
through us, altering everything in us completely. No doubt Traugott had
stepped on to one of these conductors at the moment when he began
sketching the old man and the page, without having any idea that they
were standing behind him in the flesh; for the strange apparition of
them had gone darting through him like a flash of lightning, and he
felt that he now clearly knew and understood things which had formerly
been but presages and dreams. The shyness which used to tie his tongue
when conversation turned upon things which lay hidden, like holy
mysteries, in the depths of his being, had vanished; and so, when the
uncle began finding fault with the wonderful figures, partly painted,
partly carved, in the Artus-Hof, as being 'in bad taste,' and
particularly the soldier-pictures as being 'wild and extravagant,'
Traugott boldly maintained that, though it was possible that they might
not strictly conform to the canons of art, still, it had been the case
with him, as well as with many others, that a marvellous world of
imagination had dawned upon him in the Artus Hof, and that some of the
figures had told him, in looks full of life, as well as in distinct
words, that he was a mighty master himself, and able to make and form
like him from whose mysterious _atelier_ they had proceeded.
"Herr Elias really looked, if possible, even a greater ass than usual
when the youngster spoke these lofty words; but the uncle, with a
strange, slightly sneering smile, said:
"'I repeat what I said before, that I can't understand how you should
be a man of business, and not devote yourself to art altogether.' The
man was excessively antipathetic to Traugott, somehow; and he
therefore, during the walk, kept to the nephew, who was very pleasant
and friendly.
"'Ah, Heavens!' the nephew said, 'how I envy you that talent of yours!
If I could only draw like you! I really have a great turn for it; I've
drawn some capital eyes, and ears and noses, and two or three heads
even; but oh!--the office, you know,--the office!'
"'I thought,' said Traugott, 'that when one was conscious of a real
gift--a true calling--for art, one ought to devote one's self to it
altogether.'
"'Be an artist, you mean? How can you say such a thing? Look here, my
dear fellow; I've thought over this subject perhaps more than most
people; indeed I have such a reverence for art that I've gone deeper
into this, almost, than I can explain, so that I can only give you a
hint or two of what I mean.'
"He looked so learned and so profoundly thoughtful as he said this,
that Traugott really felt a sort of veneration for him.
"'You'll admit,' said the nephew, when he had taken a pinch of snuff,
and sneezed a couple of times, 'that the function of art is to weave
flowers into life. Amusement--recreation after the serious business of
life--is the delightful end and object of all artistic effort; and this
is attained exactly in proportion as the productions of art are
satisfactory. This goal of art is distinctly perceptible in actual
life, because it is only those who practise art on this principle who
enjoy that comfort and prosperity which flies away for ever from those
who (against the true principles of things) look upon art as the
primary object and highest aim of life. Therefore, my dear sir, don't
you pay any attention to what my uncle said, nor let that lead you
astray from the serious business of life, to an occupation which can no
more stand alone than a helpless infant learning to walk.'
"Here the nephew paused, as if expecting Traugott to reply; but he had
no idea what to say. The nephew's harangue had struck him as being a
farrago of incredible nonsense, and he contented himself with asking
him what he considered 'the serious business of life.' The nephew
looked at him rather puzzled.
"'Well,' he said at last, 'you'll admit that a man must live; and the
embarrassed professional artist can scarcely be said to do that.' He
then went on talking a quantity of nonsense, using fine words and
elaborate expressions; the result of which was, that by 'living' he
meant having plenty of money and no debts; eating and drinking of the
best, and having a nice wife and children, with no grease-spots on
their Sunday-clothes, etc. This seemed to stifle Traugott, and he was
glad when he got quit of this sapient nephew, and was alone in his own
quarters.
"'What a wretched, miserable life I am leading, to be sure!' he said
to himself. 'In the beautiful morning--in the glorious, golden
spring-time, when the soft west wind comes breathing even into the
gloomy streets, and seems to tell, in its gentle murmurings, of all
the wonders and marvels that are blossoming into beauty in the fields
and woods--I slink into Elias Roos's smoky office, "creeping like snail
unwillingly to school." There pale faces sit behind shapeless desks,
and nothing breaks the gloomy silence, buried in which everybody
labours, but the turning of the leaves of big account-books, the jingle
of money on the desks, and an occasional unintelligible word or two.
And what kind of labour is it? What is all this thinking and writing
for? That the coins in the chest may increase in number; that the
Fafner's ill-luck-bringing hoard may sparkle and gleam the brighter.
The artist--the sculptor--can go out with uplifted head, and inhale the
refreshing spring-rays, which kindle in him an inner world full of
glorious pictures, so that it bursts into happiness of life and motion.
Out of the dark thickets come wonderful forms, created by his own
spirit; and they remain his; because the mysterious spells of light, of
colour, and of form dwell within him, and he fixes down for ever that
which his mental vision has seen, representing it to the senses. Why
should I not break away from this hateful life? The wonderful old man
has confirmed me in the idea that I am called to be an artist; still
more has the beautiful page. It is true he didn't say anything, but I
felt that his look told me clearly everything which has been in me so
long, in the form of presentiment, but which a thousand doubts and
misgivings have pressed down and prevented from shooting up into life.
Can I not be a great artist, in spite of my abominable calling?'
"Traugott got out all the drawings he had ever done, and looked through
them critically. Much of his work struck him quite differently from
what it had formerly done, and generally seemed much better than he had
thought. There was one drawing particularly--one of his childish
attempts, done in his early boyhood--a leaf, on which the old
burgomaster and the page were copied, in somewhat distorted, but
clearly recognizable outlines; and he remembered well that, even in
these early days, those figures had a strange influence upon him, and
that he was once, in the gloaming, impelled, as by an irresistible
spell, to leave his play and go to the Artus Hof, where he laboured
diligently at copying them. He was moved by the deepest, most
melancholy yearning as he looked at this drawing. He ought by rights to
have gone to the office for a couple of hours as usual, but he felt
that he could not; and, instead, he went out and up on to the
Karlsberg. Thence he looked out over the sea: and in the dashing
billows, in the grey evening haze rising, and lying in wonderful
shapes of cloud-vapour over Hela, he strove to read, as in a magic
mirror, the destiny of his future life.
"Do you not hold, dear reader, that that which comes down into our
breasts from the higher realm of love has to reveal itself to us at
first as hopeless sorrow? That is the doubt, the misgiving, which comes
surging into the artist's heart. He sees the ideal, and feels his
powerlessness to grasp it. But then there comes to him a godlike
courage; he makes endeavour, and his despair melts away into a sweet
longing which gives him strength, and incites him to approach nearer
and nearer to that Unattainable which he never reaches, though always
getting closer to it.
"Traugott was now powerfully attacked by this hopeless pain. When,
early the next morning, he looked again at his drawings, they all
seemed feeble and wretched, and he remembered what an experienced
friend had often said: that great mischief, together with very mediocre
results in art, proceed from the circumstance that people often mistake
mere vivid, superficial excitement for a true, inward calling for art.
He was much disposed to look upon the Artus Hof and the figures of the
burgomaster and the page as outward, superficial excitements of this
description. He condemned himself to go back and work in the office,
regardless of the loathing, which often came so forcibly upon him that
he was obliged to leave off work all of a sudden and rush into the open
air. Herr Elias, with careful consideration, attributed this to the
poor state of health which he felt certain the deadly pale face of the
youngster indicated.
"A considerable time elapsed--the St. Dominic's Fair was at hand, after
which Traugott was to marry Christina, and be formally announced to the
commercial world as Roos's partner. This point of time was, to him,
that of his sorrowful farewell to all his fair hopes and beautiful
dreams; and it lay heavy on his heart when he saw Christina hard at
work having everything scrubbed and polished on the second floor,
folding curtains with her own hands, giving the final polish and
glitter to all the brass, etc.
"One day, in the thick of the turmoil in the Artus Hof, at its most
crowded hour, Traugott heard a voice behind him, whose well-remembered
tones went straight to his heart:
"'Is this paper really at such a discount?'
"He turned quickly, and saw, as he had expected, the wonderful old man,
who had gone up to a broker to sell some paper whose price was
tremendously depreciated. The handsome lad was standing behind the old
man, and cast a sad, kindly look at Traugott. He went quickly up, and
said:
"'Excuse me, sir; but that paper is very low in the market just at
present. Still, there can be no doubt that it will stand much better in
a very few days. If you will take my advice, you will keep it, and not
sell till the quotation is more favourable.'
"'My good sir,' said the old man coldly and irritably, 'what have you
got to do with my affairs? How do you know but that I may want ready
money just at this particular moment, so that this piece of paper may
be of no use to me?'
"Traugott, vexed that the old man had taken his interference so amiss,
was going quickly away, but the lad looked beseechingly at him with
tearful eyes.
"'I meant you kindly, sir,' he said quickly, 'and I can't allow you to
be such a serious loser. Sell me the paper, on the understanding that I
pay you the higher rate which it will stand at in a day or two.'
"'You're a strange person,' said the old man; 'I don't see why you
should go making my fortune in this sort of way.'
"As he said this, he looked piercingly at the lad, who cast down
bashful eyes of blue. They went with Traugott to his office, where the
money was paid over to the old man, who put it in his purse with a face
of gloom. Whilst this was going on, the lad said to Traugott:
"'Was it not you who were drawing so cleverly a week or two ago in the
Artus Hof?'
"Yes,' said Traugott, while the colour came to his cheeks as he
remembered the letter of advice.
"'Oh, then,' said the lad, 'I'm not surprised----'
"The old man looked at him angrily, and he stopped at once. Traugott
couldn't help a certain embarrassment in their presence, so that they
were gone before he managed to ask where they lived, etc., etc. The
looks of them had something so marvellous about them that even the
people in the office were struck by it.
"The surly book-keeper stuck his pen behind his ear and stared at the
old man, with his arms crossed behind his head.
"God bless my soul!' he cried, when the couple had gone out, 'that chap
with the curly beard and the black cloak looks like an old picture of
the year 1400 in the church of St. John.'
"But Herr Elias took him for a Polish Jew, notwithstanding his
aristocratic bearing, and his grave, thoughtful, old-German face.
"'Stupid brute!' he cried. 'Sells his paper now, and would get at least
ten per cent, more for it this day week!' Of course he didn't know that
Traugott was going to pay him the difference out of his own pocket;
which he did some days afterwards, when he came across the old man and
the lad in the Artus Hof again.
"'My son,' said the old man, 'has reminded me that you are a
brother-artist; therefore I have accepted this service from you, which
otherwise I should not have done.'
"They were standing beside one of the four granite pillars which
support the vaulted roof of the hall, and close to the figures which
Traugott had drawn in the letter of advice. He spoke, without
hesitation, of the extraordinary likeness of these figures to the old
man and the lad. The old man gave a strange smile, laid his hand on
Traugott's shoulder, and said, in a low voice of some caution:
"'You are not aware, then, that I am Godfredus Berklinger, the German
painter, and that I painted the figures which you seem to admire a very
long time ago, when I was quite a young student of my art? I painted my
own portrait as the Burgomaster, as a _souvenir_, and that the page
leading the horse is my son you may see in a moment if you compare
their faces and figures.'
"Traugott was dumb with amazement, but he soon felt that the old man,
who believed himself the master who had painted these pictures over two
hundred years ago, must be suffering from some species of insanity.
"'Indeed,' said the old man, lifting his head and looking round him
with pride, 'it was a glorious springtide of art when I adorned this
hall with all these pictures, in honour of the wise King Arthur and his
Round Table. I have always felt convinced that the noble presence, who
came to me once when I was working here, and called me to mastership,
which I had not then attained, was King Arthur himself.'
"'My father,' said the lad, 'is an artist whom there are not many like,
and you would not regret it if he were to allow you to come and see his
works.'
"The old man had taken a few steps through the hall, which was then
empty; and he called to the lad to come away. But Traugott boldly asked
him to show him his pictures. The old man scanned him long, with keen,
penetrating eyes, and finally said, very seriously:
"'You are somewhat presumptuous, truly, in that you would penetrate
into the holy of holies before your apprenticeship is well begun.
However, be it so! if your eyes are too feeble to see as yet, you may
to some extent surmise. Come to me early to-morrow.'
"He explained where he lived, and Traugott got away from his work as
soon as possible the next morning, and hastened to the out-of-the-way
street where the old man was to be found. The lad, dressed in antique
German costume, opened the door, and took him into a spacious room,
where the old man was sitting on a little stool before a large canvas,
all covered with a grey ground-tint.
"'You are come at a fortunate time, sir,' cried the old man, 'for I
have just this moment put the finishing touches to this great picture,
upon which I have been engaged for more than a year, and which has cost
me no small pains! It is the companion picture to another of the same
size, representing "Paradise Lost," which I finished last year, and
which you will see here also. This one, as you see, is "Paradise
Regained," and I should pity you if you were to try to discover any
hidden allegory in it. It is only weaklings and bunglers who paint
allegorical pictures. This picture of mine does not suggest; it _is_!
You observe that all these rich groupings of men, animals, flowers and
jewels form one harmonious whole, whose loud, glorious music is a pure,
heavenly harmony of eternal glorification and ecstasy.'
"Then he began to point out, and give prominence to particular groups.
He drew Traugott's attention to the mysteries of the disposition of the
light and shade; to the lustre and sparkle of the flowers and gems; to
the wonderful forms which, rising out of the bells of lilies, grouped
themselves into bands of beautiful maidens and youths; to the bearded
men who, with youthful vigour in their looks and motions, seemed to be
conversing with curious animals. He spoke louder and louder, more and
more vehemently and incoherently.
"'Let thy diamond crown sparkle, thou mighty sage!' he cried, with
gleaming eyes riveted on the empty canvas. 'Throw off the Isis-veil
which thou hast cast over thy head at the approach of the uninitiate!
Why dost thou wrap that dark mantle so carefully over thy breast? I
must see thy heart! It is the philosopher's stone, which discloses all
secrets. Art thou not _me_? What meanest thou by confronting me with
such audacity? Wilt thou do battle with thy master? Dost thou think
that gleaming ruby there, which is thy heart, can grind my breast to
dust? Come on, then! come forth! come _here_! I am he that made thee,
for I am----'
"Here the old man fell to the ground in a heap, as if struck by a
lightning flash. Traugott raised him up; the lad brought an easy-chair,
in which they placed the old man, who now seemed to be lying in a quiet
sleep.
"'You now know my dear old father's condition, sir,' said the lad
softly, in a low voice. 'A cruel fate has stripped all the flowers away
from his life; for many years he has been dead to the art, which was
his life formerly. He sits for entire days before a canvas, stretched
and grounded as you see that one. This he calls "painting," and you
have seen the condition of excitement which the description of one of
his so-called pictures produces in him. Besides this, he is tormented
by another most unfortunate idea, which makes my life a very sad and
unhappy one. But this I look upon as a blow of destiny which carries me
away in the same sweep with which it has come over him. If you would
like to recover a little from the impression of this strange scene,
come with me into the next room, where you will see several pictures
painted in my father's earlier, fruitful days.'
"How astonished was Traugott to see a number of works which might have
been by the most celebrated painters of the Dutch School! They were
generally scenes from life; for instance, a company of people coming
back from the chase, singing, and playing on instruments, and the like.
They were full of deep meaning; and the heads, particularly, had a
wonderful expression of life and vigour. As Traugott was going back to
the other room, he noticed a picture close to the door, before which he
paused as if spell-bound. It was a portrait of a most beautiful girl,
in ancient German dress, but the face was exactly that of the lad, only
rounder and with more colour; and the figure seemed to be on a fuller
scale. A thrill of nameless delight went through Traugott at the sight
of this beautiful lady. In power and vigour the picture was quite equal
to a Vandyke. The dark eyes gazed down on Traugott with a might of
love-appeal; the sweet lips, half-parted, seemed to be whispering words
of affection.
"'Oh Heaven! oh Heaven!' sighed Traugott out of the depths of his
heart, 'where is she to be found?'
"'Come, sir,' said the lad, 'we must go to my father.'
"But Traugott cried, like one beside himself:
"'Ah! that is she, the beloved of my soul, whom I have so long
treasured in the depths of my heart, whom I was conscious of, and
recognized only in dreams! Where is she? Where is she?'
"The tears streamed from young Berklinger's eyes; he seemed torn with a
spasm of pain, scarce able to master his emotion.
"'Come!' he said at last, in a firm, steady voice. 'That is a portrait
of my sister, my unfortunate sister, Felizitas. She is lost, gone for
ever. You will never see her.'
"Traugott, scarcely conscious what he was doing, let himself be
conducted back to the other room. The old man was still asleep, but he
started up, with eyes flashing anger, and cried:
"'What are you doing here, sir?'
"The lad reminded him that he had just been showing Traugott his new
picture. He then seemed to remember what had happened. He appeared to
get weaker, and said, very faintly:
"'You will pardon an old man's forgetfulness, my dear sir?'
"Your new picture is a most magnificent work,' said Traugott. 'I have
never seen anything like it. It must take enormous labour and study to
paint like that. I trace in myself a great, irresistible bent towards
art, and I beg you most earnestly, my dear old master, to take me as
your most diligent and hard-working pupil.'
"The old man grew quite serene and kindly. He embraced Traugott, and
promised to be his faithful master and instructor. Traugott went to him
every day, and made great progress. His office work was now altogether
repugnant to him; he got so careless of it and inattentive to it that
Herr Elias Roos made loud complaints, and at last was glad when
Traugott, under the pretext of a lingering illness, gave up going to
the office at all: for which reason, also, the marriage was put off for
an indefinite time, to Christina's no small vexation.
"'That Mr. Traugott of yours,' said a business friend to Roos, 'looks
as if he had got something or other on his mind; perhaps some old love
debit which he would like to square up before he marries; he's so
terribly white, and wild-looking.'
"'Ay, ay,' said Elias; 'and why not, if he likes? I wonder,' he
continued after a little, 'if that sly little baggage of a Christina of
mine has been up to any tricks? That book-keeper's a spoony sort of
fellow; he's always kissing her hand, and squeezing it. Traugott's over
head and ears in love with her. Is it a bit of jealousy, I wonder? Gad!
I must watch how the cat jumps a little.'
"But though he watched as carefully as he could, he did _not_ see how
she jumped; and he said to the business friend aforesaid:
"'He's a precious rum customer, Master Traugott, I can tell you; but I
see nothing for it but to let him "gang his gate" as he likes best. If
he hadn't between seven and eight thousand pounds in my house, I should
soon let him see what I'd be after. Damme! he never does a stroke of
work in the office.'
"Traugott would now have been leading a life of the brightest sunshine
in the study of his art, had his heart not been consumed by the fervour
of his love for the beautiful Felizitas, whom he often saw in wondrous
dreams. Her portrait had disappeared; the old man had taken it away,
and Traugott did not dare to ask about it for fear of annoying him. For
the rest, Berklinger had got more and more confidence in Traugott as
time went on, and he now allowed him to better his narrow housekeeping
in many ways, instead of paying for his lessons in money. Traugott
learned from young Berklinger that the old man had lost very
considerably by the sale of a small collection of pictures, and that
the paper which Traugott had negotiated for him was all that had been
left of that sum, and was in fact all the money they had remaining. But
it was extremely seldom that he was able to have any talk with the lad
in private; the old man watched him with extraordinary vigilance, and
always instantly interfered when he was beginning to talk freely and
unconstrainedly with his friend. This pained Traugott greatly, as from
his extraordinary likeness to Felizitas he was devoted to him; and
often, when he was near the lad, he almost felt as if the beloved form
was by him in all its beauty--as if he felt the sweet breath of her
love; and he would fain have taken the lad to his heart as if he had
been the adored Felizitas herself.
"The winter was over; the beautiful spring shone forth, and blossomed
in all its loveliness in wood and meadow. Elias Boos advised Traugott
to go to some watering-place, or try a course of whey. Christina began
to look forward to her marriage again, though Traugott seldom showed
himself, and still seldomer allowed the idea of such a thing as
marriage to enter his head.
"One day, Traugott had been obliged to go to the office and spend a
considerable time there, in connection with the settlement of some
important accounts; so that the usual hour for his lesson was long
past, and he did not arrive at Berklinger's till it was late in the
evening twilight. He found nobody in the front-room, and from the next
proceeded the sound of a lute. He had never heard the instrument
before. He listened. A song, broken by pauses, breathed through the
chords like gentle sighs. He opened the door. Heavens! a female figure,
in ancient German dress, was seated with her back to him, with high
lace collar, exactly like the portrait. At the slight sound which
Traugott made in opening the door, the lady rose, laid the lute on the
table, and turned. It was her very self!
"'Felizitas!' Traugott cried wildly, in the fulness of his rapture, and
was going to kneel at her feet, when he felt himself seized by the neck
from behind, with a mighty grip, and dragged out of the room.
"'Profligate! Villain unparalleled!' cried old Berklinger, as he thrust
him out, 'this is your love of art, is it? Do you want to kill me?'
"He dragged him out at the door; a knife was gleaming in his hand.
Traugott fled down-stairs, stupefied, half crazy with love and terror.
He hurried home.
"He rolled about, sleepless, from side to side in his bed.
"'Felizitas! Felizitas!' he cried, torn with anguish and love-pain;
'you are here, and I may not see you!--cannot take you to my arms! For
you love me, that I know, by the bitter torture that I feel myself?'
"The spring sun came shining brightly into his room; he pulled himself
together, and resolved to get to the bottom of the mystery in
Berklinger's house, cost what it might. He went there as quickly as he
could; but what were his feelings when he saw that all the windows were
open, and women busy cleaning out the rooms. He felt what had happened.
Berklinger and his son had left the house late the previous evening,
and gone away, no one knew whither. A cart with two horses had taken
away the boxes with the pictures, and the two small trunks which
contained the Berklingers' little all; and he had followed, with his
son, about half-an-hour afterwards. All efforts to trace them were
vain; no stable-keeper had hired out horses to anybody answering to the
description of them which Traugott gave; even at the town-gates he
could hear nothing satisfactory. Berklinger had disappeared as if he
had been carried away on Mephistopheles's mantle. Traugott ran home in
utter despair.
"'She is gone! she is gone! the beloved of my soul! All--all is lost!'
he cried, as he went banging past Elias Roos (who happened to be in the
front hall near the entry door) on his way to his room.
"'God bless my soul and body!' cried Herr Elias, shoving back his wig.
'Christina! Christina!' he then cried till the house rang; 'Christina!
horrible girl! undutiful daughter!'
"The clerks came running out of the office with faces of terror.
"'What's the matter, Herr Roos?' cried the bookkeeper, in great alarm;
but Herr Roos went on shouting 'Christina! Christina!'
"'Just then Christina came in at the street-door, and, after she had
lifted the brim of her broad straw-hat up a little, asked, with a
smile, what her father was making such a shouting about.
"I'm not going to have you bolting away in this inexplicable sort of
way,' Herr Elias roared at her, wrathfully in the extreme. 'The
son-in-law's a melancholy sort of customer, and as jealous as the Grand
Turk. Just you keep at home, d'ye see, or we shall have all the fat in
the fire directly. My partner's sitting in there, howling and groaning,
because you're out of the way somewhere.'
"Christina cast a look of amazement at the bookkeeper, who replied by a
significant glance towards the office-cupboard where Herr Elias kept
the cinnamon-water.
"'Better go in and comfort the intended,' he said, going back to the
office. Christina went to her own room, just to put on some other
'things;' give out the week's washing; make the necessary arrangements
with the cook about the Sunday dinner, and hear the gossip of the town
during that process, and then go at once and see what was the matter
with the 'intended.'
"Yon know, dear reader, that we should all of us--had we been in
Traugott's place--have had to go through the essential stages of the
condition. No escape from that. After the despair comes a benumbed,
heavy brooding, in which the 'crisis' takes place; and then the
condition passes into a gentle sorrow, in which Nature knows how to
apply her remedies efficaciously.
"In this stage of heavy, but beneficent sorrow, Traugott was sitting
some days afterwards on the Karlsberg, gazing once more at the waves as
they beat upon the shore, and the grey mists that lay over Hela. But
not, this time, was he trying to read the future. All that he had hoped
and anticipated was past.
"'Ah!' he sighed, 'my calling for art was a bitter deception. Felizitas
was the phantom which lured me to believe in what never existed save in
the insane dreams of a fever-sick fool. It is all over. I fight no
more! Back to my prison! So let it be, and have done with it!'
"Traugott worked in the office again, and the marriage-day with
Christina was fixed once more. The day before it, Traugott was standing
in the Artus Hof, looking, not without inward heart-breaking sorrow, at
the fateful forms of the burgomaster and his page, when he noticed the
broker to whom Berklinger had been trying to sell his paper. Almost
involuntarily, without thinking what he was doing, he went up to him
and asked him:
"'Did you know a strange old man with a black, curly beard, who used to
come here some time ago, with a handsome lad?'
"'Of course I did,' said the broker: Godfried Berklinger, the mad
painter.'
"'Then have you any idea what's become of him?--where he's living now?'
"'Certainly I have,' answered the broker; 'he's been quietly settled
down at Sorrento for a good while, with his daughter?'
"'With his daughter Felizitas?' cried Traugott, so vehemently that all
the people looked round at him.
"'Well, yes,' answered the broker quietly; 'that was the nice-looking
lad that used to go about with the old man. Half Dantzic knew it was a
girl, though the old gentleman thought nobody would ever find it out.
It had been prophesied to him that if his daughter ever got into any
love-affair he would die a horrible death, and that was why he didn't
want anybody to know about her, and gave out that she was his son.'
"Traugott stood as if petrified. Then he set off running through the
streets, out at the town-gate to the open country, and on into the
woods, loudly lamenting.
"'Miserable wretch that I am!' he cried. 'It was she!--it was herself!
I have sate beside her thousands of times; inhaled her breath, pressed
her delicate hands, looked into her beautiful eyes, listened to her
sweet accents! and now she is lost! Ah, no!--lost she is not! After her
to the land of art! The hint of destiny is clear. Away!--away to
Sorrento!' He rushed home. Elias Roos chanced to come in his way. He
seized him, and dragged him into his room.
"'I'll never marry Christina!' he shouted; 'she's like the Voluptas,
and the Luxuries, and has hair like the Ira, in the picture in the
Artus Hof. Felizitas! beautiful, beloved being! how you stretch out
your longing arms to me! I am coming! I am coming! and I give you fair
warning, Elias,' he continued, once more clutching that man of
business, whose face was as white as a sheet, 'that you'll never see me
in that damned office of yours any more! What the devil do I care for
your infernal ledgers and day-books? I'm a painter--and a good painter
too: Berklinger is my master, my father, my everything; and you are
nothing--and less than nothing!'
"With this he gave Elias a good shaking, who shouted at the top of his
lungs, 'Help! help, you fellows! Come here! the son-in-law's gone off
his head! My partner's raving! Help! help!'
"The clerks all came rushing out of the office; Traugott had left Elias
go, and was lying exhausted in a chair. They all came round him; but on
his jumping up suddenly, with a wild look, and crying, 'What the devil
do you want?' they ran jostling out at the door in a heap, with Herr
Elias in the centre. Presently there was a rustling, as of a silk
dress, outside, and a voice inquired:
"Are you really gone out of your senses, Mr. Traugott, or are you only
joking?'
"It was Christina.
"'I'm not a bit wrong in my head, my clear child,' Traugott answered,
'and I'm not joking in the slightest degree. But there'll be no wedding
to-morrow, as far as I am concerned. As to that, my mind's completely
made up. It's impossible that ever I can marry you at all.'
"'Oh, very well,' said Christina, without the smallest excitement; 'I
haven't been caring so much about you for some time as I used, and
there are people who would think themselves very well off to marry me
if they got the chance. So, adieu.'
"With which she went rustling out.
"'She means the book-keeper,' thought Traugott. As he was calm, now, he
betook himself to Herr Roos, to whom he demonstrated circumstantially
that there could not possibly be any further question of him as a
son-in-law, or as a partner either. Herr Elias agreed to everything,
and asseverated, times without number, in the office, with gladness of
heart, that he thanked God he was well rid of the crack-brained
Traugott, when the latter was far away from Dantzic.
"Life dawned upon Traugott with a fresh and glorious brightness when he
found himself in the longed-for land. The German artists in Rome
admitted him into the circle of their studies, and thus it happened
that he made a longer stay there than his eagerness to see Felizitas,
which had urged him on restlessly till then, wholly justified. But this
longing had become less urgent. It had taken more the form of a
blissful dream whose perfumed shimmer pervaded all his being, so that
he looked upon it, and the exercise of his art, as matters belonging
wholly to the high and holy, super-earthly realm of blissful presage
and anticipation. Every female figure which he painted with his skilful
artist's hand had the face of the beautiful Felizitas. The young
artists were much struck by the beauty of this face, of which they
could not come across the original in Rome; and they besieged Traugott
with questions as to where he had seen her. But he felt a certain
shyness about telling them his strange adventure at Dantzic; till at
length an old friend of his, Matuszewski by name (who, like himself,
had devoted himself to painting in Rome), joyfully announced that he
had seen the girl whom Traugott introduced in all his pictures.
Traugott's joy may be imagined; he no longer made any secret of what it
was that had drawn him so strongly to art and brought him to Italy, and
the artists thought his Dantzic adventure so curious and interesting
that they all undertook to search eagerly for his lost love.
Matuszewski was the most successful; he soon found out where the girl
lived, and learnt, besides, that she really was the daughter of a poor
old painter, who was at that time tinting the walls in the church of
Trinità dell' Monte. Traugott went to that church with Matuszewski, and
thought he actually recognized old Berklinger in the painter, who was
up upon a lofty scaffold. From thence the friends, whom the old man had
not noticed, hurried to where he lived.
"'It is she!' cried Traugott when he saw the painter's daughter on the
balcony, busy about some woman's work. "With a loud cry of 'Felizitas!
Felizitas!' he burst into the room. The girl looked at him quite
terrified. She had the features of Felizitas, and was excessively like
her, but was not she. This bitter disappointment pierced Traugott's
heart as with a thousand daggers. Matuszewski explained to the girl how
the matter stood, in a few words. She was very lovely in her shyness,
with blushing cheeks and downcast eyes; and Traugott, who at first
wanted to be off immediately, remained where he was (after giving just
another sorrowful look at the pretty young creature), fettered by
gentle bands. Matuszewski managed to say polite and pleasant things to
reassure the pretty Dorina, who soon lifted the dark fringed curtains
of her eyes, and looked at the strangers with smiling glances, saying
her father would soon be home and that he would be delighted to see
German artists, of whom his opinion was high. Traugott could not but
admit that, except Felizitas, no woman had ever made such an impression
on him as Dorina. She was, in fact, almost Felizitas herself, only her
features were a little more strongly marked, and her hair a trifle
darker. It was the same portrait painted by Raphael and by Rubens. The
father came in ere long, and Traugott at once saw that the height of
the scaffold on which he had seen him had deceived him as to his
appearance. Instead of the vigorous Berklinger, this was a little lean,
timid creature, oppressed by poverty. A deceptive cross shadow in the
church had given to his smooth-shaven chin the effect of Berklinger's
black curly beard. He showed great practical knowledge in talking of
his art, and Traugott determined to cultivate an acquaintance which,
painfully as it had commenced, was becoming pleasanter every moment.
Dorina, all sweetness and childlike candour, allowed her liking for the
young German painter to be clearly seen. Traugott returned it heartily,
and soon got so accustomed to be with her that he spent entire days
with the little household, moved his studio to a large empty room near
their house, and at last went and lodged with them altogether. In this
way he greatly improved their slender scale of housekeeping, and the
old man could not think otherwise than that Traugott was going to marry
Dorina. He told him so, one day, plump and plain. Traugott was not a
little alarmed: for he only then began to ask himself what had become
of the object of his journey. Felizitas stood once more vividly before
his memory, and yet he did not feel able to quit Dorina. In some
mysterious way he could not think of ever possessing his vanished love
as a wife. Felizitas seemed a spiritual image, never either to be won,
or lost--eternally present to the spirit--never to be physically gained
and possessed. But Dorina often came to his thoughts as his dear wife.
Sweet thrills permeated him, a gentle glow streamed through his veins.
And yet it seemed a treason to his first love to allow himself to be
bound with new, indissoluble ties. Thus did the most contradictory
feelings strive in his heart. He could not come to a decision. He
avoided the old man carefully, who was under the impression that
Traugott was going to trick him out of his daughter, and took care to
talk everywhere of Traugott's marriage as a settled thing, saying that
otherwise he never would have allowed his daughter to contract an
intimacy so dangerous to her fair fame. One day his Italian blood fired
up, and he told Traugott distinctly that he must either marry Dorina,
or be off about his business, as he could not allow their intimacy to
go on, on its present footing, for another hour. Traugott was vexed and
indignant, and that not with the old man only. His own conduct struck
him as contemptible. It seemed a sin and an abomination to have ever
thought of another than Felizitas. It tore his heart to part from
Dorina, but he broke the tender ties by a mighty effort, and set off as
fast as possible to Naples--to Sorrento.
"He spent a year in the most careful efforts to discover Berklinger and
Felizitas--in vain; nobody knew anything about them. All that he traced
was a faint sort of surmise--based upon what seemed little more than a
legend--that there had once been an old German painter in Sorrento,
several years before. Driven to and fro as if upon a stormy ocean,
Traugott ended by settling down for some time in Naples; and, as he
worked more diligently at his painting again, the longing for Felizitas
grew gentler and milder in his heart. But he never saw a woman at all
resembling her in figure, walk, or bearing, without feeling the loss of
the dear, sweet child most painfully. When painting, he never thought
of Dorina, but always of Felizitas, who was his constant ideal.
"At last he got letters from home, in which his agent told him that
Herr Elias Roos had shuffled off this mortal coil, and that his
presence was necessary for the settlement of his affairs with the
book-keeper, who had married Christina, and was carrying on the
business. Traugott hastened back to Dantzic by the quickest route.
"There he stood once more in the Artus Hof, by the granite pillar,
opposite to the Burgomaster and the Page. He thought of the strange
adventure which had introduced such a painful element into his life;
and, in deep and painful sorrow, he gazed at the lad, who seemed to
welcome him back with eyes of life, and to whisper in sweet and
charming accents, 'You see, you could not leave me, after all!'
"'Can I believe my eyes? Is it really you, sir, back again safe and
sound, and quite cured of the troublesome melancholy which used to
bother you so?'
"So croaked a voice beside Traugott. It was our old acquaintance the
broker.
"'I never found them,' said Traugott involuntarily.
"'Them?' inquired the broker. 'Whom did you never find, sir?'
"'The painter, Godfredus Berklinger, and his daughter Felizitas,'
answered Traugott. 'I searched for them all over Italy; nobody knew
anything about them in Sorrento.'
"The broker looked at him with eyes of wide amazement, and stammered:
'Where did you look for them, sir? In Italy? at Naples? at Sorrento?'
"'Yes, of course I did,' said Traugott wrathfully.
"The broker struck his hands together time after time, crying 'Oh, my
goodness gracious! Oh, my goodness gracious! Oh, Mr. Traugott, sir!'
"'Well! what is there so astonishing about it?' said Traugott. 'Don't
go on like a donkey! For the sake of the woman he loves, a man will go
even as far as to Sorrento. Yes, yes! I loved Felizitas, and I went in
search of her.'
"But the broker jumped about on one leg, and kept on crying, 'Oh, my
goodness gracious!' till Traugott seized him and held him tight; and
looking at him with earnest glance said:
"'For God's sake, man, out with what you see so extraordinary about the
affair!'
"'But, Mr. Traugott,' began the broker at last, 'don't you know that
Herr Aloysius Brandstetter, the town councillor and Dean of Guild,
calls that little villa of his at the bottom of the Karlsberg, in the
fir wood near Conrad's Hammer, "Sorrento"? He bought Berklinger's
pictures, and took him and his daughter to live in his house, that's to
say, in Sorrento. They were there for a year or two, and you might have
stood upon the Karlsberg on your own logs, my dear sir, and looked down
into the garden, and seen Mademoiselle Felizitas walking about in funny
old-fashioned clothes, like those in the pictures there. You needn't
have taken the trouble to go to Italy! Afterwards the old man---- But
that's a painful story.'
"'Let me hear it,' said Traugott in a hollow voice.
"'Well,' continued the broker, 'young Mr. Brandstetter came back from
England and fell in love with Mademoiselle Felizitas; and once when he
found her in the garden, he fell romantically on his knees to her and
vowed he would marry her, and free her from the tyrannical slavery her
father kept her in. The old man was close by, though they didn't see
him; and as soon as ever Felizitas said, "I will be yours," he tumbled
down, with a hollow cry, as dead as a herring, sir! They say he looked
awful, all blue and bloody, for he had broken a blood-vessel somehow or
other. After that, Mademoiselle Felizitas couldn't endure young Mr.
Brandstetter, so she married Mr. Mathesius, the police magistrate at
Marienwerder. You'll go and call upon her, of course, for the sake of
old times. Marienwerder isn't quite so far away as Sorrento in Italy.
She's quite well, and very happy, They've got several nice children.'
"Traugott hastened away, silent and benumbed. This outcome of his
adventure filled him with awe and terror.
"'Oh no!' he cried. 'This is not she, this is not she--not Felizitas,
the angelic creature who kindled that eternal love and longing in my
soul! whom I went in search of to a far-off country, always and always
seeing her dear image before me like my star of fortune, beaming and
glowing in sweet hope! Felizitas! Mrs. Mathesius, wife of Mathesius,
the police magistrate. Ha! ha! ha! Mrs. Mathesius!'
"He laughed loud and bitterly in the wildness of his grief; and, as of
old, he went out at the Olivaer Gate and up on to the Karlsberg. He
looked down into the grounds of Sorrento: the tears rolled down his
cheeks. 'Ah!' he cried, 'how deeply, how incurably deeply, thou Eternal
Power that rulest all things, does thy bitter scorn and mockery wound
the tender hearts of poor humanity! But, no, no; why should the child,
who puts his hands into the fire instead of enjoying its warmth and
brightness, complain? Destiny was at work with me, visibly; but my
feeble eyes could not see; and, in my audacity, I thought that creation
of the old master which came so wondrously to life and approached me,
was a thing like myself, and that I could drag it down into this
wretched earthly existence. No, no, Felizitas! I have not lost you. You
are, and shall be, mine for ever, because you are the creative art
which lives within me. It is only now that I really know you. What have
you, what have I, to do with Mrs. Mathesius, the police magistrate's
wife? Nothing, that I can see.'
"'I couldn't quite see what you had to do with her, either, Mr.
Traugott,' a voice fell in.
"Traugott awoke from a dream. He found himself, without knowing how, in
the Artus Hof again, leaning on the granite pillar. The person who had
just spoken was Christina's husband. He handed Traugott a letter which
had just arrived from Rome. Matuszewski wrote:
"'Dorina is prettier and more charming than ever; only rather pale, for
love of you, dear friend. She expects you hourly, for she is certain
you could not desert her. She is really tremendously devoted to you.
When shall we see you here again?'
"'I'm very glad, indeed,' said Traugott to Christina's husband after
reading this, 'that we managed to settle all our business to-day, for I
start to-morrow for Rome, where the lady I am going to marry is
expecting me eagerly.'"
When Cyprian finished reading, the friends congratulated him on the
pleasant, healthy tone which pervaded his story. Only Theodore thought
the fair sex might find a good deal to take exception to in it, and
that not only the blonde Christina with her well scoured pots and pans,
but the mystification of the hero, Mrs. Mathesius the police
magistrate's wife and all the latter part of the story, with its
profound irony, would much displease them.
"If you are going to model your work," said Lothair, "according
to what pleases women, you must, of course, leave out irony
altogether--although it is the source of the most delicate and
delightful kind of humour--because they have not, as a general rule,
the smallest sense of it."
"Which I, for one, am thoroughly glad is the case," said Theodore.
"You'll admit that humour, which, in us, takes its source in striking
contrasts, is quite foreign to feminine nature. And we are vividly
conscious of this, though we may not often clearly account to ourselves
for it. For, tell me, though you may take pleasure for a time in the
conversation of a witty and humorous woman, would you like her as a
sweetheart or a wife?"
"Not at all," said Lothair, "although there is a great deal to be said
on the extensive question of how far humour is a feminine quality or
otherwise; and I hereby reserve the privilege of hereafter addressing
my worthy Serapion Brethren, at a suitable opportunity, on this
important question, with a fulness and wisdom with which no
psychologist has as yet discussed it. But, as a general query, let me
ask you, Theodore, if you consider it essentially necessary to think of
every superior woman, with whom one may have a little rational
conversation, in the light of a sweetheart or wife?"
"I think," said Theodore, "that any feminine being can only really
interest one if one, at all events, does not shrink from the idea of
her as a sweetheart or wife, and that, the more this idea finds
comfortable room in one's mind, the greater is the interest."
"That," said Ottmar, laughing, "is one of Theodore's most daring
theories, which I know well of old. He has always acted up to it, and
often coolly turned his back upon many a charming creature, because he
couldn't manage to fancy himself in love with her for an hour or two.
Even as a dancing student, he used to declare, earnestly, that he gave
his heart to every girl he danced with, at all events while the waltz
or quadrille lasted; and he used to try to express in his 'steps' what
his lips were forbidden to utter, and sigh as profoundly as his stock
of breath would let him."
"Allow me," said Theodore, "to interrupt this un-Serapiontish
conversation. It is late; and I should be sorry not to read you,
to-night, a tale which I finished yesterday. The spirit moved me to
treat, rather more fully than has been done previously, a well-known
_thema_ concerning a miner at Falun; and you must decide whether I have
done well to yield to the spirit's prompting, or not. I have had to
keep my colouring down to a melancholy tone, which may perhaps contrast
unfavourably with Cyprian's more cheerful picture. Forgive me this, and
lend me a favourable ear."
Theodore read:--
"THE MINES OF FALUN.
"One bright, sunny day in July the whole population of Goethaborg was
assembled at the harbour. A fine East-Indiaman, happily returned from
her long voyage, was lying at anchor, with her long, homeward-bound
pennant, and the Swedish flag fluttering gaily in the azure sky.
Hundreds of boats, skiffs, and other small craft, thronged with
rejoicing seafolk, were going to and fro on the mirroring waters of the
Goethaelf, and the cannon of Masthuggetorg thundered their far-echoing
greeting out to sea. The gentlemen of the East-India Company were
walking up and down on the quay, reckoning up, with smiling faces, the
plentiful profits they had netted, and rejoicing their hearts at the
yearly increasing success of their hazardous enterprise, and at the
growing commercial importance of their good town of Goethaborg. For the
same reasons everybody looked at these brave adventurers with pleasure
and pride, and shared their rejoicing; for their success brought sap
and vigour into the whole life of the place.
"The crew of the East-Indiaman, about a hundred strong, landed in a
number of boats (gaily dressed with flags for the occasion) and
prepared to hold their 'Hoensning.' That is the name of the feast which
the sailors hold on such occasions; it often goes on for several days.
Musicians went before them, in strange, gay dresses, playing lustily on
violins, oboes, fifes and drums, whilst others sung merry songs; after
them came the crew, walking two and two; some, with gay ribbons on
their hats and jackets, waved fluttering streamers; others danced and
skipped; and all of them shouted and cheered at the tops of their
voices, till the sounds of merriment rang far and wide.
"Thus the gay procession passed through the streets, and on to the Haga
suburb, where a feast of eating and drinking was ready for them in a
tavern.
"Here the best of 'Oel' flowed in rivers and bumper after bumper was
quaffed. Numbers of women joined them, as is always the case when
sailors come home from a long voyage; dancing began, and wilder and
wilder grew the revel, and louder and louder the din.
"One sailor only--a slender, handsome lad of about twenty, or scarcely
so much--had slipped away from the revel, and was sitting alone
outside, on the bench at the door of the tavern.
"Two or three of his shipmates came out to him, and cried, laughing
loudly:
"'Now then, Elis Froebom! are you going to be a donkey, as usual, and
sit out here in the sulks, instead of joining the sport like a man?
Why, you might as well part company from the old ship altogether, and
set sail on your own hook, as fight shy of the "Hoensning." One would
think you were a regular long-shore land-lubber, and had never been
afloat on blue water. All the same, you've got as good pluck as any
sailor that walks a deck--ay, and as cool and steady a head in a gale
of wind as ever I came athwart; but, you see, you can't take your
liquor! You'd sooner keep the ducats in your pocket than serve them out
to the land-sharks ashore here. There, lad! take a drink of that; or
Naecken, the sea-devil, and all the Troll will be foul of your hawse
before you know where you are!'
"Elis Froebom jumped up quickly from the bench; glared angrily at
his shipmates; took the tumbler--which was filled to the brim with
brandy--and emptied it at a draught; then he said:
"'You see I can take my glass with any man of you, Ivens; and you can
ask the captain if I'm a good sailor-man, or not; so stow away that
long tongue of yours, and sheer off! I don't care about all this drink
and row here; and what I'm doing out here by myself is no business of
yours; you have nothing to do with it.'
"'All right, my hearty!' answered Ivens. 'I know all about it. You're
one of these Nerica men--and a moony lot the whole cargo of them are
too. They're the sort of chaps that would rather sit and pipe their eye
about nothing particular, than take a good glass, and see what the
pretty lasses at home are made of, after a twelve-month's cruize! But
just you belay there a bit. Steer full and bye, and stand off and on,
and I'll send somebody out to you that'll cut you adrift, in a pig's
whisper, from that old bench where you've cast your anchor.'
"They went; and presently a very pretty, rather refined-looking girl
came out of the tavern, and sat down beside the melancholy Elis, who
was still sitting, silent and thoughtful, on the bench. From her dress
and general appearance there could be no doubt as to her terrible
calling. But the life she was leading had not yet quite marred the
delicacy of the wonderfully tender features of her beautiful face;
there was no trace of repulsive boldness about the expression of her
dark eyes--rather a quiet, melancholy longing.
"'Aren't you coming to join your shipmates, Elis?' she said. 'Now that
you're back safe and sound, after all you've gone through on your long
voyage, aren't you glad to be home in the old country again?'
"The girl spoke in a soft, gentle voice, putting her arms about him.
Elis Froebom looked into her eyes, as if roused from a dream. He took
her hand; he pressed her to his breast. It was evident that what she
had said had made its way to his heart.
"'Ah!' he said, as if collecting his thoughts, 'it's no use talking
about my enjoying myself. I can't join in all that riot and uproar;
there's no pleasure in it, for me. You go away, my dear child! Sing and
shout like the rest of them, if you can, and let the gloomy, melancholy
Elis stay out here by himself; he would only spoil your pleasure. Wait
a minute, though! I like you, and I should wish you to think of me
sometimes, when I'm away on the sea again.'
"With that he took two shining ducats out of his pocket, and a
beautiful Indian handkerchief from his breast, and gave them to the
girl. But her eyes streamed with tears; she rose, laid the money on the
bench, and said:
"'Oh, keep your ducats; they only make me miserable; but I'll wear the
handkerchief in dear remembrance of you. You're not likely to find me
next year when you hold your Hoensning in the Haga.'
"And she crept slowly away down the street, with her hands pressed to
her face.
"Elis fell back into his gloomy reveries. At length, as the uproar in
the tavern grew loud and wild, he cried:
"'Oh, that I were lying deep, deep beneath the sea! for there's nobody
left in the wide, wide world that I can be happy with now!'
"A deep, harsh voice spoke, close behind him: 'You must have been most
unfortunate, youngster, to wish to die, just when life should be
opening before you.'
"Elis looked round, and saw an old miner standing leaning against the
boarded wall of the tavern, with folded arms, looking down at him with
a grave, penetrating glance.
"As Elis looked at him, a feeling came to him as if some familiar
figure had suddenly come into the deep, wild solitude in which he had
thought himself lost. He pulled himself together, and told the old
miner that his father had been a stout sailor, but had perished in the
storm from which he himself had been saved as by a miracle; that his
two soldier brothers had died in battle, and he had supported his
mother with the liberal pay he drew for sailing to the East Indies. He
said he had been obliged to follow the life of a sailor, having been
brought up to it from childhood, and it had been a great piece of good
fortune that he got into the service of the East-India Company. This
voyage, the profits had been greater than usual, and each of the crew
had been given a sum of money over and above his pay; so that he had
hastened, in the highest spirits, with his pockets full of ducats, to
the little cottage where his mother lived. But strange faces looked at
him from the windows, and a young woman who opened the door to him at
last told him, in a cold, harsh tone, that his mother had died three
months before, and that he would find the few bits of things that were
left, after paying the funeral expenses, waiting for him at the Town
Hall. The death of his mother broke his heart. He felt alone in the
world--as much so as if he had been wrecked on some lonely reef,
helpless and miserable. All his life at sea seemed to him to have been
a mistaken, purposeless driving. And when he thought of his mother,
perhaps badly looked after by strangers, he thought it a wrong and
horrible thing that he should have gone to sea at all, instead of
staying at home and taking proper care of her. His comrades had dragged
him to the Hoensning in spite of himself, and he had thought, too, that
the uproar, and even the drink, might have deadened his pain; but
instead of that, all the veins in his breast seemed to be bursting, and
he felt as if he must bleed to death.
"'Well,' said the old miner, 'you'll soon be off to sea again, Elis,
and then your sorrow will soon be over. Old folks must die; there's no
help for that: she has only gone from this miserable world to a
better.'
"Ah!' said Elis, 'it is just because nobody believes in my sorrow, and
that they all think me a fool to feel it--I say it's that which is
driving me out of the world! I shan't go to sea any more; I'm sick of
existence altogether. When the ship used to go flying along through the
water, with all sail set, spreading like glorious wings, the waves
playing and dashing in exquisite music, and the wind singing in the
rigging, my heart used to bound. Then I could hurrah and shout on deck
like the best of them. And when I was on look-out duty of dark, quiet
nights, I used to think about getting home, and how glad my dear old
mother would be to have me back. I could enjoy a Hoensning like the
rest of them, then. And when I had shaken the ducats into mother's lap,
and given her the handkerchiefs and all the other pretty things I had
brought home, her eyes would sparkle with pleasure, and she would clap
her hands for joy, and run out and in, and fetch me the "Aehl" which
she had kept for my homecoming. And when I sat with her of an evening,
I would tell her of all the strange folks I had seen, and their ways
and customs, and about the wonderful things I had come across in my
long voyages. This delighted her; and she would tell me of my father's
wonderful cruizes in the far North, and serve me up lots of strange,
sailor's yarns, which I had heard a hundred times, but never could hear
too often. Ah! who will give me that happiness back again? No, no!
never more on land!--never more at sea! What should I do among my
shipmates? They would only laugh at me. Where should I find any heart
for my work? It would be nothing but an objectless striving.'
"It gives me real satisfaction to listen to you, youngster,' said the
old miner. 'I have been observing you, without your knowledge, for the
last hour or two, and have had my own enjoyment in so doing. All that
you have said and done has shown me that you possess a profoundly
thoughtful mind, and a character and nature pious, simple, and sincere.
Heaven could have given you no more precious gifts; but you were never
in all your born days in the least cut out for a sailor. How should the
wild, unsettled sailor's life suit a meditative, melancholy Neriker
like you?--for I can see that you come from Nerica by your features,
and whole appearance. You are right to say good-bye to that life for
ever. But you're not going to walk about idle, with your hands in your
pockets? Take my advice, Elis Froebom. Go to Falun, and be a miner. You
are young and strong. You'll soon be a first-class pick-hand; then a
hewer; presently a surveyor, and so get higher and higher. You have a
lot of ducats in your pocket. Take care of them; invest them; add more
to them. Very likely you'll soon get a "Hemmans" of your own, and then
a share in the works. Take my advice, Elis Froebom; be a miner.'
"The old man's words caused him a sort of fear.
"'What?' he cried. 'Would you have me leave the bright, sunny sky that
revives and refreshes me, and go down into that dreadful, hell-like
abyss, and dig and tunnel like a mole for metals and ores, merely to
gain a few wretched ducats? Oh, never!'
"'The usual thing,' said the old man. 'People despise what they have
had no chance of knowing anything about! As if all the constant
wearing, petty anxieties inseparable from business up here on the
surface, were nobler than the miner's work. To his skill, knowledge,
and untiring industry Nature lays bare her most secret treasures. You
speak of gain with contempt, Elis Froebom. Well, there's something
infinitely higher in question here, perhaps: the mole tunnels the
ground from blind instinct; but, it may be, in the deepest depths, by
the pale glimmer of the mine candle, men's eyes get to see clearer, and
at length, growing stronger and stronger, acquire the power of reading
in the stones, the gems, and the minerals, the mirroring of secrets
which are hidden above the clouds. You know nothing about mining, Elis.
Let me tell you a little.'
"He sat down on the bench beside Elis, and began to describe the
various processes minutely, placing all the details before him in the
clearest and brightest colours. He talked of the Mines of Falun, in
which he said he had worked since he was a boy; he described the great
main-shaft, with its dark brown sides; he told how incalculably rich
the mine was in gems of the finest water. More and more vivid grew his
words, more and more glowing his face. He went, in his description,
through the different shafts as if they had been the alleys of some
enchanted garden. The jewels came to life, the fossils began to move;
the wondrous Pyrosmalite and the Almandine flashed in the light of the
miner's candles; the Rock-Crystals glittered, and darted their rays.
"Elis listened intently. The old man's strange way of speaking of all
these subterranean marvels as if he were standing in the midst of them,
impressed him deeply. His breast felt stifled; it seemed to him as if
he were already down in these depths with the old man, and would never
more look upon the friendly light of day. And yet it seemed as though
the old man were opening to him a new and unknown world, to which he
really properly belonged, and that he had somehow felt all the magic of
that world, in mystic forebodings, since his boyhood.
"Elis Froebom,' said the old man at length, 'I have laid before you all
the glories of a calling for which Nature really destined you. Think
the subject well over with yourself, and then act as your better
judgment counsels you.'
"He rose quickly from the bench, and strode away without any good-bye
to Elis, without looking at him even. Soon he disappeared from his
sight.
"Meanwhile quietness had set in in the tavern. The strong 'Aehl' and
brandy had got the upper hand. Many of the sailors had gone away with
the girls; others were lying snoring in corners. Elis--who could go no
more to his old home--asked for, and was given, a little room to sleep
in.
"Scarcely had he thrown himself, worn and weary as he was, upon his
bed, when dreams began to wave their pinions over him. He thought he
was sailing in a beautiful vessel on a sea calm and clear as a mirror,
with a dark, cloudy sky vaulted overhead. But when he looked down into
the sea he presently saw that what he had thought was water was a firm,
transparent, sparkling substance, in the shimmer of which the ship, in
a wonderful manner, melted away, so that he found himself standing upon
this floor of crystal, with a vault of black rock above him, for that
was rock which he had taken at first for clouds. Impelled by some power
unknown to him he stepped onwards, but, at that moment, every thing
around him began to move, and wonderful plants and flowers, of
glittering metal, came shooting up out of the crystal mass he was
standing on, and entwined their leaves and blossoms in the loveliest
manner. The crystal floor was so transparent that Elis could distinctly
see the roots of these plants. But soon, as his glance penetrated
deeper and deeper, he saw, far, far down in the depths, innumerable
beautiful maidens, holding each other embraced with white, gleaming
arms; and it was from their hearts that the roots, plants, and flowers
were growing. And when these maidens smiled, a sweet sound rang all
through the vault above, and the wonderful metal-flowers shot up
higher, and waved their leaves and branches in joy. An indescribable
sense of rapture came upon the lad; a world of love and passionate
longing awoke in his heart.
"'Down, down to you!' he cried, and threw himself with outstretched
arras down upon the crystal ground. But it gave way under him, and he
seemed to be floating in shimmering æther.
"'Ha! Elis Froebom; what think you of this world of glory?' a strong
voice cried. It was the old miner. But as Elis looked at him, he seemed
to expand into gigantic size, and to be made of glowing metal. Elis was
beginning to be terrified; but a brilliant light came darting, like a
sudden lightning-flash, out of the depths of the abyss, and the earnest
face of a grand, majestic woman appeared. Elis felt the rapture of his
heart swelling and swelling into destroying pain. The old man had hold
of him, and cried:
"'Take care, Elis Froebom! That is the queen. You may look up now.'
"He turned his head involuntarily, and saw the stars of the night sky
shining through a cleft in the vault overhead. A gentle voice called
his name as if in inconsolable sorrow. It was his mother's. He thought
he saw her form up at the cleft. But it was a young and beautiful woman
who was calling him, and stretching her hands down into the vault.
"'Take me up!' he cried to the old man. I tell you I belong to the
upper world, and its familiar, friendly sky.'
"'Take care, Froebom,' said the old man solemnly; 'be faithful to the
queen, whom you have devoted yourself to.'
"But now, when he looked down again into the immobile face of the
majestic woman, he felt that his personality dissolved away into
glowing molten stone. He screamed aloud, in nameless fear, and awoke
from this dream of wonder, whose rapture and terror echoed deep within
his being.
"'I suppose I could scarcely help dreaming all this extraordinary
stuff,' he said to himself, as he collected his senses with difficulty;
'the old miner told me so much about the glories of the subterranean
world that of course my head's quite full of it. But I never in my life
felt as I do now. Perhaps I'm dreaming still. No, no; I suppose I
must be a little out of sorts. Let's get into the open air. The fresh
sea-breeze'll soon set me all right.'
"He pulled himself together, and ran to the Klippa Haven, where the
uproar of the Hoensning was breaking out again. But he soon found that
all enjoyment passed him by, that he couldn't hold any thought fast in
his mind, that presages and wishes, to which he could give no name,
went crossing each other in his mind. He thought of his dead mother
with the bitterest sorrow; but then, again, it seemed to him that what
he most longed for was to see that girl again--the one whom he gave the
handkerchief to--who had spoken so nicely to him the evening before.
And yet he was afraid that if she were to come meeting him out of some
street she would turn out to be the old miner in the end. And he was
afraid of _him_; though, at the same time, he would have liked to hear
more from him of the wonders of the mine.
"Driven hither and thither by all these fancies, he looked down into
the water, and then he thought he saw the silver ripples hardening into
the sparkling glimmer in which the grand ships melted away, while the
dark clouds, which were beginning to gather and obscure the blue sky,
seemed to sink down and thicken into a vault of rock. He was in his
dream again, gazing into the immobile face of the majestic woman, and
the devouring pain of passionate longing took possession of him as
before.
"His shipmates roused him from his reverie to go and join one of their
processions, but an unknown voice seemed to whisper in his ear:
"'What are you doing here? Away, away! Your home is in the Mines of
Falun. There all the glories which you saw in your dream are waiting
for you. Away, away to Falun!'
"For three days Elis hung and loitered about the streets of Goethaborg,
constantly haunted by the wonderful imagery of his dream, continually
urged by the unknown voice. On the fourth day he was standing at the
gate through which the road to Gefle goes, when a tall man walked
through it, passing him. Elis fancied he recognized in this man the old
miner, and he hastened on after him, but could not overtake him.
"He followed him on and on, without stopping.
"He knew he was on the road to Falun, and this circumstance quieted him
in a curious way; for he felt certain that the voice of destiny had
spoken to him through the old miner, and that it was he who was now
leading him on to his appointed place and fate.
"And, in fact, he many times--particularly if there was any uncertainty
about the road--saw the old man suddenly appear out of some ravine, or
from thick bushes, or gloomy rocks, stalk away before him, without
looking round, and then disappear again.
"At last, after journeying for many weary days, Elis saw, in the
distance, two great lakes, with a thick vapour rising between them. As
he mounted the hill to westward, he saw some towers and black roofs
rising through the smoke. The old man appeared before him, grown to
gigantic size, pointed with outstretched hand towards the vapour, and
disappeared again amongst the rocks.
"'There lies Falun,' said Elis, 'the end of my journey.'
"He was right; for people, coming up from behind him, said the town of
Falun lay between the lakes Runn and Warpann, and that the hill he was
ascending was the Guffrisberg, where the main-shaft of the mine was.
"He went bravely on. But when he came to the enormous gulf, like the
jaws of hell itself, the blood curdled in his veins, and he stood as if
turned to stone at the sight of this colossal work of destruction.
"The main-shaft of the Falun mines is some twelve hundred feet long,
six hundred feet broad, and a hundred and eighty feet deep. Its dark
brown sides go, at first for the most part, perpendicularly down, till
about half way they are sloped inwards towards the centre by enormous
accumulations of stones and refuse. In these, and on the sides, there
peeped out here and there timberings of old shafts, formed of strong
shores set close together and strongly rabbeted at the ends, in the way
that blockhouses are built. Not a tree, not a blade of grass to be seen
in all the bare, blank, crumbling congeries of stony chasms; the
pointed, jagged, indented masses of rock tower aloft all round in
wonderful forms, often like monstrous animals turned to stone, often
like colossal human beings. In the abyss itself lie, in wild
confusion--pell-mell stones, slag, and scoria, and an eternal,
stupefying sulphury vapour rises from the depths, as if the hell-broth,
whose reek poisons and kills all the green gladsomeness of nature, were
being brewed down below. One would think this was where Dante went down
and saw the Inferno, with all its horror and immitigable pain.
"As Elis looked down into this monstrous abyss, he remembered what an
old sailor, one of his shipmates, had told him once. This shipmate of
his, at a time when he was down with fever, thought the sea had
suddenly all gone dry, and the boundless depths of the abyss had opened
under him, so that he saw all the horrible creatures of the deep
twining and writhing about amongst thousands of extraordinary shells,
and groves of coral, in dreadful contortions, till they died, and lay
dead, with their mouths all gaping. The old sailor said that to see
such a vision meant death, ere long, in the waves; and in fact he did
very soon after fall overboard, no one knew exactly how, and was
drowned without possibility of rescue. Elis thought of that: for indeed
the abyss seemed to him to be a good deal like the bottom of the sea
run dry; and the black rocks, and the blue and red slag and scoria,
were like horrible monsters shooting out polype-arms at him. Two or
three miners happened, just then, to be coming up from work in the
mine, and in their dark mining clothes, with their black, grimy faces,
they were much like ugly, diabolical creatures of some sort, slowly and
painfully crawling, and forcing their way up to the surface.
"Elis felt a shudder of dread go through him, and--what he had never
experienced in all his career as a sailor--his head got giddy. Unseen
hands seemed to be dragging him down into the abyss.
"He closed his eyes and ran a few steps away from it; and it was not
till he began climbing up the Guffrisberg again, far from the shaft,
and could look up at the bright, sunny sky, that he quite lost the
feeling of terror which had taken possession of him. He breathed freely
once more, and cried, from the depths of his heart:
"'Lord of my Life! what are the dangers of the sea compared with the
horror which dwells in that awful abyss of rock? The storm may rage,
the black clouds may come whirling down upon the breaking billows, but
the beautiful, glorious sun soon gets the mastery again, and the storm
is past. But never does the sun penetrate into these black, gloomy
caverns; never a freshening breeze of spring can revive the heart down
there. No! I shall not join you, black earthworms that you are! Never
could I bring myself to lead that terrible life.'
"He resolved to spend that night in Falun, and set off back to
Goethaborg the first thing in the morning.
"When he got to the market-place, he found a crowd of people there. A
train of miners with their mine-candles in their hands, and musicians
before them, was halted before a handsome house. A tall, slightly-built
man, of middle age, came out, looking round him with kindly smiles. It
was easy to see, by his frank manner, his open brow, and his bright,
dark-blue eyes, that he was a genuine Dalkarl. The miners formed a
circle round him, and he shook them each cordially by the hand, saying
kindly words to them all.
"Elis learned that this was Pehrson Dahlsjoe, Alderman, and owner of a
fine 'Fraelse' at Stora-Kopparberg. 'Fraelse' is the name given in
Sweden to landed property leased out for the working of the lodes of
copper and silver contained in it. The owners of these lands have
shares in the mines and are responsible for their management.
"Elis was told, further, that the Assizes were just over that day, and
that then the miners went round in procession to the houses of the
aldermen, the chief engineers and the minemasters, and were hospitably
entertained.
"When he looked at these fine, handsome fellows, with their kindly,
frank faces, he forgot all about the earthworms he had seen coming up
the shaft. The healthy gladsomeness which broke out afresh in the whole
circle, as if new-fanned by a spring breeze, when Pehrson Dahlsjoe came
out, was of a different kidney to the senseless noise and uproar of the
sailors' Hoensning. The manner in which these miners enjoyed themselves
went straight to the serious Elis's heart. He felt indescribably happy;
but he could scarce restrain his tears when some of the young pickmen
sang an ancient ditty in praise of the miner's calling, and of the
happiness of his lot, to a simple melody which touched his heart and
soul.
"When this song was ended, Pehrson Dahlsjoe opened his door, and the
miners all went into his house one after another. Elis followed
involuntarily, and stood at the threshold, so that he overlooked the
spacious floor, where the miners took their places on benches. Then the
doors at the side opposite to him opened, and a beautiful young lady,
in evening dress, came in. She was in the full glory of the freshest
bloom of youth, tall and slight, with dark hair in many curls, and a
bodice fastened with rich clasps. The miners all stood up, and a low
murmur of pleasure ran through their ranks. "Ulla Dahlsjoe!" they said.
"What a blessing Heaven has bestowed on our hearty alderman in her!"
Even the oldest miners' eyes sparkled when she gave them her hand in
kindly greeting, as she did to them all. Then she brought beautiful
silver tankards, filled them with splendid Aehl (such as Falun is
famous for), and handed them to the guests with a face beaming with
kindness and hospitality.
"When Elis saw her a lightning flash seemed to go through his heart,
kindling all the heavenly bliss, the love-longings, the passionate
ardour lying hidden and imprisoned there. For it was Ulla Dahlsjoe who
had held out the hand of rescue to him in his mysterious dream. He
thought he understood, now, the deep significance of that dream, and,
forgetting the old miner, praised the stroke of fortune which had
brought him to Falun.
"Alas! he felt he was but an unknown, unnoticed stranger, standing
there on the doorstep miserable, comfortless, alone--and he wished he
had died before he saw Ulla, as he now must perish for love and
longing. He could not move his eyes from the beautiful creature, and,
as she passed close to him, he pronounced her name in a low, trembling
voice. She turned, and saw him standing there with a face as red as
fire, unable to utter a syllable. So she went up to him, and said, with
a sweet smile:
"'I suppose you are a stranger, friend, as you are dressed as a sailor.
Well! why are you standing at the door? Come in and join us."
"Elis felt as if in the blissful paradise of some happy dream, from
which he would presently waken to inexpressible wretchedness. He
emptied the tankard which she had given him; and Pehrson Dahlsjoe came
up, and, after kindly shaking hands with him, asked him where he came
from, and what had brought him to Falun.
"Elis felt the warming power of the noble liquor in his veins, and,
looking the hearty Dahlsjoe in the eyes, he felt happy and courageous.
He told him he was a sailor's son and had been at sea since his
childhood, had just come home from the East Indies and found his mother
dead; that he was now alone in the world; that the wild sea life had
become altogether distasteful to him; that his keenest inclination led
him to a miner's calling, and that he wished to get employment as a
miner here in Falun. The latter statement, quite the reverse of his
recent determination, escaped him involuntarily; it was as if he could
not have said anything else to the alderman, nay as if it were the most
ardent desire of his soul, although he had not known it till now,
himself.
"Pehrson Dahlsjoe looked at him long and carefully, as if he would read
his heart; then he said:
"'I cannot suppose, Elis Froebom, that it is mere thoughtless
fickleness and the love of change that lead you to give up the calling
you have followed hitherto, nor that you have omitted to maturely weigh
and consider all the difficulties and hardships of the miner's life
before making up your mind to take to it. It is an old belief with us
that the mighty elements with which the miner has to deal, and which he
controls so bravely, destroy him unless he strains all his being to
keep command of them--if he gives place to other thoughts which weaken
that vigour which he has to reserve wholly for his constant conflict
with Earth and Fire. But if you have properly tested the sincerity of
your inward call, and it has withstood the trial, you are come in a
good hour. Workmen are wanted in my part of the mine. If you like, you
can stay here with me, from now, and to-morrow the Captain will take
you down with him, and show you what to set about.'
"Elis's heart swelled with gladness at this. He thought no more of the
terror of the awful, hell-like abyss into which he had looked. The
thought that he was going to see Ulla every day, and live under the
same roof with her, filled him with rapture and delight. He gave way to
the sweetest hopes.
"Pehrson Dahlsjoe told the miners that a young hand had applied for
employment, and presented him to them then and there. They all looked
approvingly at the well-knit lad, and thought he was quite cut out for
a miner, as regarded his light, powerful figure, having no doubt that
he would not fail in industry and straightforwardness, either.
"One of the men, well advanced in years, came and shook hands with him
cordially, saying he was Head-Captain in Pehrson Dahlsjoe's part of the
mine, and would be very glad to give him any help and instruction in
his power. Elis had to sit down beside this man, who at once began,
over his tankard of Aehl, to describe with much minuteness the sort of
work which Elis would have to commence with.
"Elis remembered the old miner whom he had seen at Goethaborg, and,
strangely enough, found he was able to repeat nearly all that he had
told him.
"'Ay,' cried the Head-Captain. 'Where can you have learned all that?
It's most surprising! There can't be a doubt that you will be the
finest pickman in the mine in a very short time.'
"Ulla--going backwards and forwards amongst the guests and attending to
them--often nodded kindly to Elis, and told him to be sure and enjoy
himself. 'You're not a stranger now, you know,' she said, 'but one of
the household. You have nothing more to do with the treacherous sea the
rich mines of Falun are your home.'
"A heaven of bliss and rapture dawned upon Elis at these words of
Ulla's. It was evident that she liked to be near him; and Pehrson
Dahlsjoe watched his quiet earnestness of character with manifest
approval.
"But Elis's heart beat violently when he stood again by the reeking
hell-mouth, and went down the mine with the Captain, in his miner's
clothes, with the heavy, iron-shod Dalkarl shoes on his feet. Hot
vapours soon threatened to suffocate him; and then, presently, the
candles flickered in the cutting draughts of cold air that blew in the
lower levels. They went down deeper and deeper, on iron ladders at last
scarcely a foot wide; and Elis found that his sailor's adroitness at
climbing was not of the slightest service to him there.
"They got to the lowest depths of the mine at last, and the Captain
showed him what work he was to set about.
"Elis thought of Ulla. Like some bright angel he saw her hovering over
him, and he forgot all the terror of the abyss, and the hardness of the
toilsome labour.
"It was clear in all his thoughts that it was only if he devoted
himself with all the power of his mind, and with all the exertion which
his body would endure, to mining work here with Pehrson Dahlsjoe, that
there was any possibility of his fondest hopes being some day realized.
Wherefore it came about that he was as good at his work as the most
practised hand, in an incredibly short space of time.
"Staunch Pehrson Dahlsjoe got to like this good, industrious lad
better and better every day, and often told him plainly that he
had found in him one whom he regarded as a dear son, as well as a
first-class mine-hand. Also Ulla's regard for him became more and more
unmistakeable. Often, when he was going to his work, and there was any
prospect of danger, she would enjoin him to be sure to take care of
himself, with tears in her eyes. And she would come running to meet him
when he came back, and always had the finest of Aehl, or some other
refreshment, ready for him. His heart danced for joy one day when
Pehrson said to him that as he had brought a good sum of money with
him, there could be no doubt that--with his habits of economy and
industry--he would soon have a 'Hemmans,' or perhaps even a 'Fraelse';
and then not a mineowner in all Falun would say him nay if he asked for
his daughter. Fain would Elis have told him at once how unspeakably he
loved Ulla, and how all his hopes of happiness were based upon her.
But unconquerable shyness, and the doubt whether Ulla really liked
him--though he often thought she did--sealed his lips.
"One day it chanced that Elis was at work in the lowest depths of the
mine, shrouded in thick, sulphurous vapour, so that his candle only
shed a feeble glimmer, and he could scarcely distinguish the run of the
lode. Suddenly he heard--as if coming from some still deeper cutting--a
knocking resounding, as if somebody was at work with a pick-hammer. As
that sort of work was scarcely possible at such a depth, and as he knew
nobody was down there that day but himself--because the Captain had got
all the men employed in another part of the mine--this knocking and
hammering struck him as strange and uncanny. He stopped working, and
listened to the hollow sounds, which seemed to come nearer and nearer.
All at once he saw, close by him, a black shadow and--as a keen draught
of air blew away the sulphur vapour--the old miner whom he had seen in
Goethaborg.
"'Good luck,' he cried, 'good luck to Elis Froebom, down here among the
stones! What think you of the life, comrade?'
"Elis would fain have asked in what wonderful way the old man had got
into the mine; but he kept striking his hammer on the rocks with such
force that the fire-sparks went whirling all round, and the mine rang
as if with distant thunder. Then he cried, in a terrible voice:
"'There's a grand run of trap just here; but a scurvy, ignorant
scoundrel like you sees nothing in it but a narrow streak of 'Trumm'
not worth a beanstalk. Down here you're a sightless mole, and you'll
always be a mere abomination to the Metal Prince. You're of no use up
above either--trying to get hold of the pure Regulus; which you never
will--hey! You want to marry Pehrson Dahlsjoe's daughter; that's what
you've taken to mine work for, not from any love of your own for the
thing. Mind what you're after, double-face; take care that the Metal
Prince, whom you are trying to deceive, doesn't take you and dash you
down so that the sharp rocks tear you limb from limb. And Ulla will
never be your wife; that much I tell you.'
"Elis's anger was kindled at the old man's insulting words.
"'What are you about,' he cried, 'here in my master, Herr Pehrson
Dahlsjoe's shaft, where I am doing my duty, and working as hard at it
as I can? Be off out of this the way you came, or we'll see which of us
two will dash the other's brains out down here.'
"With which he placed himself in a threatening attitude, and swung his
hammer about the old man's ears; who only gave a sneering laugh, and
Elis saw with terror how he swarmed up the narrow ladder rungs like a
squirrel, and disappeared amongst the black labyrinths of the chasms.
"The young man felt paralyzed in all his limbs; he could not go on with
his work, but went up. When the old Head-Captain--who had been busy in
another part of the mine--saw him, he cried:
"'For God's sake, Elis, what has happened to you? You're as pale as
death. I suppose it's the sulphur gas; you're not accustomed to it yet.
Here, take a drink, my lad; that'll do you good.'
"Elis took a good mouthful of brandy out of the flask which the
Head-Captain handed to him; and then, feeling better, told him what had
happened down in the mine, as also how he had made the uncanny old
miner's acquaintance in Goethaborg.
"The Head-Captain listened silently; then dubiously shook his head and
said:
"'That must have been old Torbern that you met with, Elis; and I see,
now, that there really is something in the tales that people tell about
him. More than one hundred years ago, there was a miner here of the
name of Torbern. He seems to have been one of the first to bring mining
into a flourishing condition at Falun here, and in his time the profits
far exceeded anything that we know of now. Nobody at that time knew so
much about mining as Torbern, who had great scientific skill, and
thoroughly understood all the ins and outs of the business. The
richest lodes seemed to disclose themselves to him, as if he had
been endowed with higher powers peculiar to himself; and as he was a
gloomy, meditative man, without wife or child--with no regular home,
indeed--and very seldom came up to the surface, it couldn't fail that a
story soon went about that he was in compact with the mysterious power
which dwells in the bowels of the earth, and fuses the metals.
Disregarding Torbern's solemn warnings--for he always prophesied that
some calamity would happen as soon as the miners' impulse to work
ceased to be sincere love for the marvellous metals and ores--people
went on enlarging the excavations more and more for the sake of mere
profit, till, on St. John's Day of the year 1678, came the terrible
landslip and subsidence which formed our present enormous main-shaft,
laying waste the whole of the works, as they were then, in the process.
It was only after many months' labour that several of the shafts were,
with much difficulty, got into workable order again. Nothing was seen
or heard of Torbern. There seemed to be no doubt that he had been at
work down below at the time of the catastrophe, so that there could be
no question what his fate had been. But not long after, and
particularly when the work was beginning to go on better again, the
miners said they had seen old Torbern in the mine, and that he had
given them valuable advice, and pointed out rich lodes to them. Others
had come across him at the top of the main-shaft, walking round it,
sometimes lamenting, sometimes shouting in wild anger. Other young
fellows have come here in the way you yourself did, saying that an old
miner had advised them to take to mining, and shewn them the way to
Falun. This always happened when there was a scarcity of hands; very
likely it was Torbern's way of helping on the cause. But if it really
was he whom you had those words with in the mine, and if he spoke of a
fine run of trap, there isn't a doubt that there must be a grand vein
of ore thereabouts, and we must see, to-morrow, if we can come across
it. Of course you remember that we call rich veins of the kind
"trap-runs," and that a "Trumm" is a vein which goes sub-dividing into
several smaller ones, and probably gets lost altogether.'
"When Elis, tossed hither and thither by various thoughts, went into
Pehrson Dahlsjoe's, Ulla did not come meeting him as usual. She was
sitting with downcast looks, and--as he thought--eyes which had been
weeping; and beside her was a handsome young fellow, holding her hand,
and trying to say all sorts of kind and amusing things, to which she
seemed to pay little attention. Pehrson Dahlsjoe took Elis--who, seized
by gloomy presentiments, was keeping a darksome glance riveted on the
pair--into another room, and said:
"'Well, Elis, you will soon have it in your power to give me a proof of
your regard and sincerity. I have always looked upon you as a son, but
you will soon take the place of one altogether. The man whom you see in
there is a well-to-do merchant, Eric Olavsen by name, from Goethaborg.
I am giving him my daughter for his wife, at his desire. He will take
her to Goethaborg, and then you will be left alone with me, my only
support in my declining years. Well, you say nothing? You turn pale? I
trust this step doesn't displease you, and that now that I'm going to
lose my daughter you are not going to leave me too? But I hear Olavsen
mentioning my name; I must go in.'
"With which he went back to the room.
"Elis felt a thousand red-hot irons tearing at his heart. He could find
no words, no tears. In wild despair he ran out, out of the house, away
to the great mine-shrift.
"That monstrous chasm had a terrible appearance by day; but now, when
night had fallen, and the moon was just peeping down into it, the
desolate crags looked like a numberless horde of horrible monsters, the
direful brood of hell, rolling and writhing, in wildest confusion, all
about its reeking sides and clefts, and flashing up fiery eyes, and
shooting forth glowing claws to clutch the race of mortals.
"Torbern, Torbern,' Elis cried, in a terrible voice, which made the
rocks re-echo. 'Torbern, I am here; you were not wrong I was a wretched
fool to fix my hopes on any earthly love, up on the surface here. My
treasure, and my life, my all-in-all, are down below. Torbern! take me
down with you! Show me the richest veins, the lodes of ore, the glowing
metal! I will dig and bore, and toil and labour. Never, never more will
I come back to see the light of day. Torbern! Torbern! take me down to
you!'
"He took his flint and steel from his pocket, lighted his candle, and
went quickly down the shaft, into the deep cutting where he had been on
the previous day, without seeing anything of the old man. But what was
his amazement when, at the deepest point, he saw the vein of metal with
the utmost clearness and distinctness, so that he could trace every one
of its ramifications, and its risings and fallings. But as he kept his
gaze fixed more and more firmly on this wonderful vein, a dazzling
light seemed to come shining through the shaft, and the walls of rock
grew transparent as crystal. That mysterious dream which he had had in
Goethaborg came back upon him. He was looking upon those Elysian Fields
of glorious metallic trees and plants, on which, by way of fruits,
buds, and blossoms, hung jewels streaming with fire. He saw the
maidens, and he looked upon the face of the mighty queen. She put out
her arms, drew him to her, and pressed him to her breast, Then a
burning ray darted through his heart, and all his consciousness was
merged in a feeling of floating in waves of some blue, transparent,
glittering mist.
"'Elis Froebom! Elis Froebom!' a powerful voice from above cried out,
and the reflection of torches began shining in the shaft. It was
Pehrson Dahlsjoe come down with the Captain to search for the lad, who
had been seen running in the direction of the main-shaft like a mad
creature.
"They found him standing as if turned to stone, with his face pressed
against the cold, hard rock.
"'What are you doing down here in the night-time, you foolish fellow?'
cried Pehrson. 'Pull yourself together, and come up with us. Who knows
what good news you may hear.'
"Elis went up in profound silence after Dahlsjoe, who did not cease to
rate him soundly for exposing himself to such danger. It was broad
daylight in the morning when they got to the house.
"Ulla threw herself into Elis's arms with a great cry, and called him
by the fondest names, and Pehrson said to him:
"'You foolish fellow! How could I help seeing, long ago, that you were
in love with Ulla, and that it was on her account, in all probability,
that you were working so hard in the mine? Neither could I help seeing
that she was just as fond of you. Could I wish for a better son-in-law
than a fine, hearty, hard-working, honest miner--than just yourself,
Elis? What vexed me was that you never would speak.'
"'We scarcely knew ourselves,' said Ulla, 'how fond we were of each
other.'
"'However that may be,' said Pehrson, 'I was annoyed that Elis didn't
tell me openly and candidly of his love for you, and that was why I
made up the story about Eric Olavsen, which was so nearly being the
death of you, you silly fellow. Not but what I wished to try you, Ulla,
into the bargain. Eric Olavsen has been married for many a day, and I
give my daughter to you, Elis Froebom, for, I say it again, I couldn't
wish for a better son-in-law.'
"Tears of joy and happiness ran down Elis's cheeks. The highest bliss
which his imagination had pictured had come to pass so suddenly and
unexpectedly that he could scarce believe it was anything but another
blissful dream. The workpeople came to dinner, by Dahlsjoe's
invitation, in honour of the event. Ulla had dressed in her prettiest
attire, and looked more charming than ever, so that they all cried,
over and over again, 'Ey! what a sweet and charming creature Elis has
got for a betrothed! May God bless them and make them happy!'
"Yet the terror of the past night still lay upon Elis's pale face, and
he often stared about him as if he were far away from all that was
going on round him. 'Elis, darling, what is the matter?' Ulla asked
anxiously. He pressed her to his heart and said, 'Yes, yes, you are my
own, and all is well.' But in the midst of all his happiness he often
felt as though an icy hand clutched at his heart, and a dismal voice
asked him,
"Is it your highest ideal, then, to be betrothed to Ulla? Wretched
fool! Have you not looked upon the face of the queen?'
"He felt himself overpowered by an indescribable, anxious alarm. He was
haunted and tortured by the thought that one of the workmen would
suddenly assume gigantic proportions, and to his horror he would
recognize in him Torbern, come to remind him, in a terrible manner, of
the subterranean realm of gems and metals to which he had devoted
himself.
"And yet he could see no reason why the spectral old man should be
hostile to him, or what connection there was between his mining work
and his love.
"Pehrson, seeing Elis's disordered condition, attributed it to the
trouble he had gone through, and his nocturnal visit to the mine. Not
so, Ulla, who, seized by a secret presentiment, implored her lover to
tell her what terrible thing had happened to him to tear him away from
her so entirely. This almost broke his heart. It was in vain that he
tried to tell her of the wonderful face which had revealed itself to
him in the depths of the mine. Some unknown power seemed to seal his
lips forcibly; he felt as though the terrible face of the queen were
looking out from his heart, so that if he mentioned her everything
about him would turn to stone, to dark, black rock, as at the sight of
the Medusa's frightful head. All the glory and magnificence which had
filled him with rapture in the abyss appeared to him now as a
pandemonium of immitigable torture, deceptively decked out to allure
him to his ruin.
"Dahlsjoe told him he must stay at home for a few days, so as to shake
off the sickness which he seemed to have fallen into. And during this
time Ulla's affection, which now streamed bright and clear from her
candid, child-like heart, drove away the memory of his fateful
adventure in the mine-depths. Joy and happiness brought him back to
life, and to belief in his good fortune, and in the impossibility of
its being ever interfered with by any evil power.
"When he went down the pit again, everything appeared quite different
to what it used to be. The most glorious veins lay clear and distinct
before his eyes. He worked twice as zealously as before; he forgot
everything else. When he got to the surface again, it cost him an
effort of thought to remember about Pehrson Dahlsjoe, about his Ulla,
even. He felt as if divided into two halves, as if his better self, his
real personality, went down to the central point of the earth, and
there rested in bliss in the queen's arms, whilst _he_ went to his
darksome dwelling in Falun. When Ulla spoke of their love, and the
happiness of their future life together, he would begin to talk of the
splendours of the depths, and the inestimably precious treasures that
lay hidden there, and in so doing would get entangled in such
wonderful, incomprehensible sayings, that alarm and terrible anxiety
took possession of the poor child, who could not divine why Elis should
be so completely altered from his former self. He kept telling the
Captain, and Dahlsjoe himself, with the greatest delight, that he had
discovered the richest veins and the most magnificent trap-runs, and
when these turned out to be nothing but unproductive rock, he would
laugh contemptuously and say that none but he understood the secret
signs, the significant writing, fraught with hidden meaning, which the
queen's own hand had inscribed on the rocks, and that it was sufficient
to understand those signs without bringing to light what they
indicated.
"The old Captain looked sorrowfully at Elis, who spoke, with wild
gleaming eyes, of the glorious paradise which glowed down in the depths
of the earth. 'That terrible old Torbern has been at him,' he whispered
in Dahlsjoe's ear.
"'Pshaw! don't believe these miners' yarns,' cried Dahlsjoe. 'He's a
deep-thinking serious fellow, and love has turned his head, that's
all. Wait till the marriage is over, then we'll hear no more of the
trap-runs, the treasures, and the subterranean paradise.'
"The wedding-day, fixed by Dahlsjoe, came at last. For a few days
previously Elis had been more tranquil, more serious, more sunk in deep
reflection than ever. But, on the other hand, never had he shown such
affection for Ulla as at this time. He could not leave her for a
moment, and never went down the mine at all. He seemed to have
forgotten his restless excitement about mining work, and never a word
of the subterranean kingdom crossed his lips. Ulla was all rapture. Her
fear lest the dangerous powers of the subterranean world, of which she
had heard old miners speak, had been luring him to his destruction, had
left her; and Dahlsjoe, too, said, laughing to the Captain, 'You see,
Elis was only a little light-headed for love of my Ulla.'
"Early on the morning of the wedding-day, which was St. John's Day as
it chanced, Elis knocked at the door of Ulla's room. She opened it, and
started back terrified at the sight of Elis, dressed in his wedding
clothes already, deadly pale, with dark gloomy fire sparkling in his
eyes.
"'I only want to tell you, my beloved Ulla,' he said, in a faint,
trembling voice, 'that we are just arrived at the summit of the highest
good fortune which it is possible for mortals to attain. Everything has
been revealed to me in the night which is just over. Down in the depths
below, hidden in chlorite and mica, lies the cherry-coloured sparkling
almandine, on which the tablet of our lives is graven. I have to give
it to you as a wedding present. It is more splendid than the most
glorious blood-red carbuncle, and when, united in truest affection, we
look into its streaming splendour together, we shall see and understand
the peculiar manner in which our hearts and souls have grown together
into the wonderful branch which shoots from the queen's heart, at the
central point of the globe. All that is necessary is that I go and
bring this stone to the surface, and that I will do now, as fast as I
can. Take care of yourself meanwhile, beloved darling. I will be back
to you directly.'
"Ulla implored him, with bitter tears, to give up all idea of such a
dream-like undertaking, for she felt a strong presentiment of disaster;
but Elis declared that without this stone he should never know a
moment's peace or happiness, and that there was not the slightest
danger of any kind. He pressed her fondly to his heart, and was gone.
"The guests were all assembled to accompany the bridal pair to the
church of Copparberg, where they were to be married, and a crowd of
girls, who were to be the bridesmaids and walk in procession before the
bride (as is the custom of the place), were laughing and playing round
Ulla. The musicians were tuning their instruments to begin a wedding
march. It was almost noon, but Elis had not made his appearance.
Suddenly some miners came running up, horror in their pale faces, with
the news that there had been a terrible catastrophe, a subsidence of
the earth, which had destroyed the whole of Pehrson Dahlsjoe's part of
the mine.
"'Elis! oh, Elis! you are gone!' screamed Ulla, wildly, and fell as if
dead. Then only, for the first time, Dahlsjoe learned from the Captain
that Elis had gone down the main-shaft in the morning. Nobody else had
been in the mine, the rest of the men having been invited to the
wedding. Dahlsjoe and all the others hurried off to search, at the
imminent danger of their own lives. In vain! Elis Froebom was not to be
found. There could be no question that the earth-fall had buried him in
the rock. And thus came desolation and mourning upon the house of brave
Pehrson Dahlsjoe, at the moment when he thought he was assured of peace
and happiness for the remainder of his days.
"Long had stout Pehrson Dahlsjoe been dead, his daughter Ulla long lost
sight of and forgotten. Nobody in Falun remembered them. More than
fifty years had gone by since Froebom's luckless wedding-day, when it
chanced that some miners who were making a connection-passage between
two shafts, found, at a depth of three hundred yards, buried in
vitriolated water, the body of a young miner, which seemed, when they
brought it to the daylight, to be turned to stone.
"The young man looked as if he were lying in a deep sleep, so perfectly
preserved were the features of his lace, so wholly without trace of
decay his new suit of miner's clothes, and even the flowers in his
breast. The people of the neighbourhood all collected round the young
man, but no one recognized him or could say who he had been, and none
of the workmen missed any comrade.
"The body was going to be taken to Falun, when out of the distance an
old, old woman came creeping slowly and painfully up on crutches.
"Here's the old St. John's Day grandmother!' the miners said. They had
given her this name because they had noticed that she came always every
year on St. John's Day up to the main shaft, and looked down into its
depths, weeping, lamenting, and wringing her hands as she crept round
it, then going away again.
"The moment she saw the body she threw away her crutches, lifted her
arms to Heaven, and cried, in the most heartrending accents of the
deepest lamentation:
"'Oh! Elis Froebom! Oh, my sweet, sweet bridegroom!'
"And she cowered down beside the body, took the stony hands and pressed
them to her heart, chilled with age, but throbbing still with the
fondest love, like some naphtha flame under the surface ice.
"'Ah!' she said, looking round at the spectators, 'nobody, nobody among
you all, remembers poor Ulla Dahlsjoe, this poor boy's happy bride
fifty long years ago. When I went away, in my terrible sorrow and
despair, to Ornaes, old Torbern comforted me, and told me I should see
my poor Elis, who was buried in the rock upon our wedding-day, yet once
more here upon earth. And I have come every year and looked for him,
all longing and faithful love. And now this blessed meeting has been
granted me this day. Oh, Elis! Elis! my beloved husband!'
"She wound her arms about him as if she would never part from him more,
and the people all stood round in the deepest emotion.
"Fainter and fainter grew her sobs and sighs, till they ceased to be
audible.
"The miners closed round. They would have raised poor Ulla, but she had
breathed out her life upon her bridegroom's body. The spectators
noticed now that it was beginning to crumble into dust. The appearance
of petrifaction had been deceptive.
"In the church of Copparberg, where they were to have been married
fifty years before, they laid in the earth the ashes of Elis Froebom,
and with them the body of her who had been thus 'Faithful unto death.'"
"I see," said Theodore, when he had finished, and the friends sat
looking straight before them in silence, "that you don't much like this
story of mine. Perhaps, in your present mood of mind, it strikes you as
too painful."
"It does produce a terribly melancholy effect upon one," said Ottmar,
"and, to speak my candid opinion, I cannot say that I care about all
the Swedish 'Fraelse' holders, the national festivities, the spectral
miners, visions, and so forth. The simple account in Schubert's 'Night
Side of Natural Science,' of the finding of a body in the Falun Mine,
which an old woman recognized as her betrothed of fifty years before,
affected me much more deeply."
"I must betake myself for aid to our patron, Serapion," said Theodore;
"for the story of the miner really came to my fancy exactly as I have
told it."
"Everybody has his own way of looking at things," said Lothair, "but
perhaps it is as well that it was to us that you read this tale,
inasmuch as we have all some knowledge of mining matters, of Falun, and
of Swedish manners and customs. Other people might say you had
sometimes been a little unintelligible from the use of too much mining
phraseology; and it isn't everybody who would know that the 'Aehl'
which you mention so often is simply a fine, strong sort of beer."
"Theodore's story has not displeased me so much as it has you, Ottmar,"
said Cyprian. "Writers very often show us people who perish in some
disastrous way as having been at issue with themselves all through
their lives, as if under the control of unknown powers of darkness.
This is what Theodore has done; and I must say I approve of it, because
I think it is exceedingly true to nature. I have known people who have
suddenly seemed to alter and change completely--who have appeared to be
suddenly petrified (so to speak) within themselves, or driven hither
and thither by hostile powers, in constant unrest, till some fearful
catastrophe has withdrawn them from life."
"Stop, stop!" cried Lothair. "If we give this spirit-seer Cyprian a
chance, we shall be drawn into a regular labyrinth of dreams,
presentiments, and all the rest of it. Allow me to dispel the gloomy
tone which has come upon us at one stroke, by reading you--as a finale
to our present sitting--a children's story which I wrote a short time
ago, as I believe, under the direct inspiration of the tricksy spirit
Puck, himself."
"A children's story by you, Lothair!" they all cried.
"Even so," said Lothair. "It may seem to you a piece of insanity that I
should write a children's story; but let me read it to you, and then
give your verdicts."
Lothair took a carefully written MS. from his pocket, and read:--
"NUTCRACKER AND THE KING OF MICE.
"CHRISTMAS EVE.
"On the 24th of December Dr. Stahlbaum's children were not allowed, on
any pretext whatever, at any time of all that day, to go into the small
drawing-room, much less into the best drawing-room into which it
opened. Fritz and Marie were sitting cowered together in a corner of
the back parlour when the evening twilight fell, and they began to feel
terribly eery. Seeing that no candles were brought, as was generally
the case on Christmas Eve, Fritz, whispering in a mysterious fashion,
confided to his young sister (who was just seven) that he had heard
rattlings and rustlings going on all day, since early morning, inside
the forbidden rooms, as well as distant hammerings. Further, that a
short time ago a little dark-looking man had gone slipping and creeping
across the floor with a big box under his arm, though he was well aware
that this little man was no other than Godpapa Drosselmeier. At this
news Marie clapped her little hands for gladness, and cried:
"'Oh! I do wonder what pretty things Godpapa Drosselmeier has been
making for us _this_ time!'
"Godpapa Drosselmeier was anything but a nice-looking man. He was
little and lean, with a great many wrinkles on his face, a big patch of
black plaister where his right eye ought to have been, and not a hair
on his head; which was why he wore a fine white wig, made of glass, and
a very beautiful work of art. But he was a very, very clever man, who
even knew and understood all about clocks and watches, and could make
them himself. So that when one of the beautiful clocks that were in Dr.
Stahlbaum's house was out of sorts, and couldn't sing, Godpapa
Drosselmeier would come, take off his glass periwig and his little
yellow coat, gird himself with a blue apron, and proceed to stick
sharp-pointed instruments into the inside of the clock, in a way that
made little Marie quite miserable to witness. However, this didn't
really hurt the poor clock, which, on the contrary, would come to life
again, and begin to whirr and sing and strike as merrily as ever; which
caused everybody the greatest satisfaction. Of course, whenever he
came he always brought something delightful in his pockets for the
children--perhaps a little man, who would roll his eyes and make bows
and scrapes, most comic to behold; or a box, out of which a little bird
would jump; or something else of the kind. But for Christmas he always
had some specially charming piece of ingenuity provided; something
which had cost him infinite pains and labour--for which reason it was
always taken away and put by with the greatest care by the children's
parents.
"'Oh! what can Godpapa Drosselmeier have been making for us _this_
time.' Marie cried, as we have said.
"Fritz was of opinion that, this time, it could hardly be anything but
a great castle, a fortress, where all sorts of pretty soldiers would be
drilling and marching about; and then, that other soldiers would come
and try to get into the fortress, upon which the soldiers inside would
fire away at them, as pluckily as you please, with cannon, till every
thing banged and thundered like anything.
"'No, no,' Marie said. 'Godpapa Drosselmeier once told me about a
beautiful garden, with a great lake in it, and beautiful swans swimming
about with great gold collars, singing lovely music. And then a lovely
little girl comes down through the garden to the lake, and calls the
swans and feeds them with shortbread and cake.'
"'Swans don't eat cake and shortbread,' Fritz cried, rather rudely
(with masculine superiority); 'and Godpapa Drosselmeier couldn't make a
whole garden. After all, we have got very few of his playthings;
whatever he brings is always taken away from us. So I like the things
papa and mamma give us much better; we keep them, all right, ourselves,
and can do what we like with them.'
"The children went on discussing as to what he might have in store for
them this time. Marie called Fritz's attention to the fact that Miss
Gertrude (her biggest doll) appeared to be failing a good deal as time
went on, inasmuch as she was more clumsy and awkward than ever,
tumbling on to the floor every two or three minutes, a thing which did
not occur without leaving very ugly marks on her face, and of course a
proper condition of her clothes became out of the question altogether.
Scolding was of no use. Mamma too had laughed at her for being so
delighted with Miss Gertrude's little new parasol. Fritz, again,
remarked that a good fox was lacking to his small zoological
collection, and that his army was quite without cavalry, as his papa
was well aware. But the children knew that their elders had got all
sorts of charming things ready for them, as also that the Child-Christ,
at Christmas time, took special care for their wants. Marie sat in
thoughtful silence, but Fritz murmured quietly to himself:
"'All the same, I should like a fox and some hussars!'
"It was now quite dark; Fritz and Marie sitting close together, did not
dare to utter another syllable; they felt as if there were a fluttering
of gentle, invisible wings around them, whilst a very far away, but
unutterably beautiful strain of music could dimly be heard. Then a
bright gleam of light passed quickly athwart the wall, and the children
knew that the Child-Christ had sped away, on shining wings, to other
happy children. At this moment a silvery bell said, 'Kling-ling!
Kling-ling!' the doors flew open, and such a brilliance of light came
streaming from the drawing-room that the children stood rooted where
they were with cries of 'Oh! Oh!'
"But papa and mamma came and took their hands, saying, 'Come now,
darlings, and see what the blessed Child-Christ has brought for you.'
"THE CHRISTMAS PRESENTS.
"I appeal to yourself, kind reader (or listener)--Fritz, Theodore,
Ernest, or whatsoever your name may chance to be--and I would beg you
to bring vividly before your mind's eye your last Christmas table, all
glorious with its various delightful Christmas presents; and then
perhaps you will be able to form some idea of the manner in which the
two children stood speechless with brilliant glances fixed on all the
beautiful things; how, after a little, Marie, with a sigh, cried, 'Oh,
how lovely! how lovely!' and Fritz gave several jumps of delight. The
children had certainly been very, very good and well-behaved all the
foregoing year to be thus rewarded; for never had so many beautiful and
delightful things been provided for them as this time. The great
Christmas tree on the table bore many apples of silver and gold, and
all its branches were heavy with bud and blossom, consisting of sugar
almonds, many-tinted bonbons, and all sorts of charming things to eat.
Perhaps the prettiest thing about this wonder-tree, however, was the
fact that in all the recesses of its spreading branches hundreds of
little tapers glittered like stars, inviting the children to pluck its
flowers and fruit. Also, all round the tree on every side everything
shone and glittered in the loveliest manner. Oh, how many beautiful
things there were! Who, oh who, could describe them all? Marie gazed
there at the most delicious dolls, and all kinds of toys, and (what was
the prettiest thing of all) a little silk dress with many-tinted
ribbons was hung upon a projecting branch in such sort that she could
admire it on all its sides; which she accordingly did, crying out
several times, 'Oh! the lovely, the lovely, darling little dress. And I
suppose, I do believe, I shall really be allowed to put it on!' Fritz,
in the meantime, had had two or three trials how his new fox (which he
had actually found on the table) could gallop; and now stated that he
seemed a wildish sort of brute; but, no matter, he felt sure he would
soon get him well in order; and he set to work to muster his new
squadron of hussars, admirably equipped, in red and gold uniforms, with
real silver swords, and mounted on such shining white horses that you
would have thought they were of pure silver too.
"When the children had sobered down a little, and were beginning upon
the beautiful picture books (which were open, so that you could see all
sorts of most beautiful flowers and people of every hue, to say nothing
of lovely children playing, all as naturally represented as if they
were really alive and could speak), there came another tinkling of a
bell, to announce the display of Godpapa Drosselmeier's Christmas
present, which was on another table, against the wall, concealed by a
curtain. When this curtain was drawn, what did the children behold?
"On a green lawn, bright with flowers, stood a lordly castle with a
great many shining windows and golden towers. A chime of bells was
going on inside it; doors and windows opened, and you saw very small,
but beautiful, ladies and gentlemen, with plumed hats, and long robes
down to their heels, walking up and down in the rooms of it. In the
central hall, which seemed all in a blaze, there were quantities of
little candles burning in silver chandeliers; children, in little short
doublets, were dancing to the chimes of the bells. A gentleman, in an
emerald green mantle, came to a window, made signs thereat, and then
disappeared inside again; also, even Godpapa Drosselmeier himself (but
scarcely taller than papa's thumb) came now and then, and stood at the
castle door, then went in again.
"Fritz had been looking on with the rest at the beautiful castle and
the people walking about and dancing in it, with his arms leant on the
table; then he said:
"'Godpapa Drosselmeier, let me go into your castle for a little.'
"Drosselmeier answered that this could not possibly be done. In which
he was right; for it was silly of Fritz to want to go into a castle
which was not so tall as himself, golden towers and all. And Fritz saw
that this was so.
"After a short time, as the ladies and gentlemen kept on walking about
just in the same fashion, the children dancing, and the emerald man
looking out at the same window, and God papa Drosselmeier coming to the
door Fritz cried impatiently:
"'Godpapa Drosselmeier, please come out at that other door!'
"'That can't be done, dear Fritz,' answered Drosselmeier.
"'Well,' resumed Fritz, 'make that green man that looks out so often
walk about with the others.'
"'And that can't be done, either,' said his godpapa, once more.
"'Make the children come down, then,' said Fritz. 'I want to see them
nearer.'
"'Nonsense, nothing of that sort can be done,' cried Drosselmeier, with
impatience. 'The machinery must work as it's doing now; it can't be
altered, you know.'
"Oh,' said Fritz, 'it can't be done, eh? Very well, then, Godpapa
Drosselmeier, I'll tell you what it is. If your little creatures in the
castle there can only always do the same thing, they're not much worth,
and I think precious little of them! No, give me my hussars. They've
got to man[oe]uvre backwards and forwards just as I want them, and are
not fastened up in a house.'
"With which he made off to the other table, and set his squadron of
silver horse trotting here and there, wheeling and charging and
slashing right and left to his heart's content. Marie had slipped away
softly, too, for she was tired of the promenading and dancing of the
puppets in the castle, though, kind and gentle as she was, she did not
like to show it as her brother did. Drosselmeier, somewhat annoyed,
said to the parents--'After all, an ingenious piece of mechanism like
this is not a matter for children, who don't understand it; I shall put
my castle back in its box again.' But the mother came to the rescue,
and made him show her the clever machinery which moved the figures,
Drosselmeier taking it all to pieces, putting it together again, and
quite recovering his temper in the process. So that he gave the
children all sorts of delightful brown men and women with golden faces,
hands and legs, which were made of ginger cake, and with which they
were greatly content.
"MARIE'S PET AND PROTÉGEÉ.
"But there was a reason wherefore Marie found it against the grain to
come away from the table where the Christmas presents were laid out;
and this was, that she had just noticed a something there which she had
not observed at first. Fritz's hussars having taken ground to the right
at some distance from the tree, in front of which they had previously
been paraded, there became visible a most delicious little man, who was
standing there quiet and unobtrusive, as if waiting patiently till it
should be his turn to be noticed. Objection, considerable objection,
might, perhaps, have been taken to him on the score of his figure, for
his body was rather too tall and stout for his legs, which were short
and slight; moreover, his head was a good deal too large. But much of
this was atoned for by the elegance of his costume, which showed
him to be a person of taste and cultivation. He had on a very pretty
violet hussar's jacket, all over knobs and braiding, pantaloons of
the same, and the loveliest little boots ever seen even on a hussar
officer--fitting his dear little legs just as if they had been painted
on to them. It was funny, certainly, that, dressed in this style as he
was, he had on a little, rather absurd, short cloak on his shoulders,
which looked almost as if it were made of wood, and on his head a cap
like a miner's. But Marie remembered that Godpapa Drosselmeier often
appeared in a terribly ugly morning jacket, and with a frightful
looking cap on his head, and yet was a very very darling godpapa.
"As Marie kept looking at this little man, whom she had quite fallen in
love with at first sight, she saw more and more clearly what a sweet
nature and disposition was legible in his countenance. Those green eyes
of his (which stuck, perhaps, a little more prominently out of his head
than was quite desirable) beamed with kindliness and benevolence. It
was one of his beauties, too, that his chin was set off with a well
kept beard of white cotton, as this drew attention to the sweet smile
which his bright red lips always expressed.
"'Oh, papa, dear!' cried Marie at last, 'whose is that most darling
little man beside the tree?'
"Well,' was the answer, 'that little fellow is going to do plenty of
good service for all of you; he's going to crack nuts for you, and he
is to belong to Louise just as much as to you and Fritz.' With which
papa took him up from the table, and on his lifting the end of his
wooden cloak, the little man opened his mouth wider and wider,
displaying two rows of very white, sharp teeth. Marie, directed by her
father, put a nut into his mouth, and--knack--he had bitten it in two,
so that the shells fell down, and Marie got the kernel. So then it was
explained to all that this charming little man belonged to the
Nutcracker family, and was practising the profession of his ancestors.
'And,' said papa, 'as friend Nutcracker seems to have made such an
impression on you, Marie, he shall be given over to your special care
and charge, though, as I said, Louise and Fritz are to have the same
right to his services as you.'
"Marie took him into her arms at once, and made him crack some more
nuts; but she picked out all the smallest, so that he might not have to
open his mouth so terribly wide, because that was not nice for him.
Then sister Louise came, and he had to crack some nuts for her too,'
which duty he seemed very glad to perform, as he kept on smiling most
courteously.
"Meanwhile, Fritz was a little tired, after so much drill and
man[oe]uvring, so he joined his sisters, and laughed beyond measure at
the funny little fellow, who (as Fritz wanted his share of the nuts)
was passed from hand to hand, and was continually snapping his month
open and shut. Fritz gave him all the biggest and hardest nuts he could
find, but all at once there was a 'crack--crack,' and three teeth fell
out of Nutcracker's mouth, and all his lower jaw was loose and wobbly.
"'Ah! my poor darling Nutcracker,' Marie cried, and took him away from
Fritz.
"'A nice sort of chap he is!' said Fritz. 'Calls himself a nutcracker,
and can't give a decent bite--doesn't seem to know much about his
business. Hand him over here, Marie! I'll keep him biting nuts if he
drops all the rest of his teeth, and his jaw into the bargain. What's
the good of a chap like him!'
"'No, no,' said Marie, in tears; 'you shan't have him, my darling
Nutcracker; see how he's looking at me so mournfully, and showing me
his poor sore mouth. But you're a hard-hearted creature! You beat your
horses, and you've had one of your soldiers shot.'
"'Those things must be done,' said Fritz; 'and you don't understand
anything about such matters. But Nutcracker's as much mine as yours, so
hand him over!'
"Marie began to cry bitterly, and wrapped the wounded Nutcracker
quickly up in her little pocket-handkerchief. Papa and mamma came with
Drosselmeier, who took Fritz's part, to Marie's regret. But papa said,
'I have put Nutcracker in Marie's special charge, and as he seems to
have need just now of her care, she has full power over him, and nobody
else has anything to say in the matter. And I'm surprised that Fritz
should expect further service from a man wounded in the execution of
his duty. As a good soldier, he ought to know better than that.'
"Fritz was much ashamed, and, troubling himself no further as to nuts
or nutcrackers, crept off to the other side of the table, where his
hussars (having established the necessary outposts and videttes) were
bivouacking for the night. Marie got Nutcracker's lost teeth together,
bound a pretty white ribbon, taken from her dress, about his poor chin,
and then wrapped the poor little fellow, who was looking very pale and
frightened, more tenderly and carefully than before in her
handkerchief. Thus she held him, rocking him like a child in her arms,
as she looked at the picture-books. She grew quite angry (which was not
usual with her) with Godpapa Drosselmeier because he laughed so, and
kept asking how she could make such a fuss about an ugly little fellow
like that. That odd and peculiar likeness to Drosselmeier, which had
struck her when she saw Nutcracker at first, occurred to her mind again
now, and she said, with much earnestness:
"'Who knows, godpapa, if you were to be dressed the same as my darling
Nutcracker, and had on the same shining boots--who knows whether you
mightn't look almost as handsome as he does?'
"Marie did not understand why papa and mamma laughed so heartily, nor
why Godpapa Drosselmeier's nose got so red, nor why he did not join so
much in the laughter as before. Probably there was some special reason
for these things.
"WONDERFUL EVENTS.
"We must now explain that, in the sitting-room, on the left-hand as you
go in, there stands, against the wall, a high, glass-fronted cupboard,
where all the children's Christmas presents are yearly put away to be
kept. Louise, the elder sister, was still quite little when her father
had this cupboard constructed by a very skilful workman, who had put in
it such transparent panes of glass, and altogether made the whole
affair so splendid, that the things, when inside it, looked almost more
shining and lovely than when one had them actually in one's hands. In
the upper shelves, which were beyond the reach of Fritz and Marie, were
stowed Godpapa Drosselmeier's works of art; immediately under them was
the shelf for the picture-books. Fritz and Marie were allowed to do
what they liked with the two lower shelves, but it always came about
that the lower one of all was that in which Marie put away her dolls,
as their place of residence, whilst Fritz utilized the shelf above this
as cantonments for his troops of all arms. So that, on the evening as
to which we are speaking, Fritz had quartered his hussars in his--the
upper--shelf of these two, whilst Marie had put Miss Gertrude rather in
a corner, established her new doll in the well-appointed chamber there,
with all its appropriate furniture, and invited herself to tea and
cakes with her. This chamber was splendidly furnished, everything on a
first-rate scale, and in good and admirable style, as I have already
said--and I don't know if you, my observant reader, have the
satisfaction of possessing an equally well-appointed room for your
dolls; a little beautifully-flowered sofa, a number of the most
charming little chairs, a nice little tea-table, and, above all, a
beautiful little white bed, where your pretty darlings of dolls go to
sleep? All this was in a corner of the shelf, the walls of which, in
this part, had beautiful little pictures hanging on them; and you may
well imagine that, in such a delightful chamber as this, the new doll
(whose name, as Marie had discovered, was Miss Clara) thought herself
extremely comfortably settled, and remarkably well off.
"It was getting very late, not so very far from midnight, indeed,
before the children could tear themselves away from all these Yuletide
fascinations, and Godpapa Drosselmeier had been gone a considerable
time. They remained riveted beside the glass cupboard, although their
mother several times reminded them that it was long after bedtime.
'Yes,' said Fritz, 'I know well enough that these poor fellows (meaning
his hussars) are tired enough, and awfully anxious to turn in for the
night, though as long as I'm here, not a man-jack of them dares to nod
his head.' With which he went off. But Marie earnestly begged for just
a little while longer, saying she had such a number of things to see
to, and promising that as soon as ever she had got them all settled she
would go to bed at once. Marie was a very good and reasonable child,
and therefore her mother allowed her to remain for a little longer with
her toys; but lest she should be too much occupied with her new doll
and the other playthings so as to forget to put out the candles which
were lighted all round on the wall sconces, she herself put all of them
out, leaving merely the lamp which hung from the ceiling to give a soft
and pleasant light. 'Come soon to your bed, Marie, or you'll never be
up in time in the morning,' cried her mother as she went away into the
bedroom.
"As soon as Marie was alone, she set rapidly to work to do the thing
which was chiefly at her heart to accomplish, and which, though she
scarcely knew why, she somehow did not like to set about in her
mother's presence. She had been holding Nutcracker, wrapped in the
handkerchief, carefully in her arms all this time, and she now laid him
softly down on the table, gently unrolled the handkerchief, and
examined his wounds.
"Nutcracker was very pale, but at the same time he was smiling with a
melancholy and pathetic kindliness which went straight to Marie's
heart.
"Oh, my darling little Nutcracker!' said she, very softly, 'don't you
be vexed because brother Fritz has hurt you so: he didn't mean it, you
know; he's only a little bit hardened with his soldiering and that, but
he's a good, nice boy, I can assure you: and I'll take the greatest
care of you, and nurse you, till you're quite, quite better and happy
again. And your teeth shall be put in again for you, and your shoulder
set right; Godpapa Drosselmeier will see to that; he knows how to do
things of the kind----'
"Marie could not finish what she was going to say, because at the
mention of Godpapa Drosselmeier, friend Nutcracker made a most
horrible, ugly face. A sort of green sparkle of much sharpness seemed
to dart out of his eyes. This was only for an instant, however; and
just as Marie was going to be terribly frightened, she found that she
was looking at the very same nice, kindly face, with the pathetic smile
which she had seen before, and she saw plainly that it was nothing but
some draught of air making the lamp flicker that had seemed to produce
the change.
"'Well!' she said, 'I certainly am a silly girl to be so easily
frightened, and think that a wooden doll could make faces at me! But
I'm too fond, really, of Nutcracker, because he's so funny, and so kind
and nice; and so he must be taken the greatest care of, and properly
nursed till he's quite well.'
"With which she took him in her arms again, approached the cupboard,
and kneeling down beside it, said to her new doll:
"I'm going to ask a favour of you, Miss Clara--that you will give up
your bed to this poor sick, wounded Nutcracker, and make yourself as
comfortable as you can on the sofa here. Remember that you're quite
well and strong yourself, or you wouldn't have such fat, red cheeks,
and that there are very few dolls indeed who have as comfortable a sofa
as this to lie upon.'
"Miss Clara, in her Christmas full dress, looked very grand and
disdainful, and said not so much as 'Muck!'
"Very well,' said Marie, 'why should I make such a fuss, and stand on
any ceremony?'--took the bed and moved it forward; laid Nutcracker
carefully and tenderly down on it; wrapped another pretty ribbon, taken
from her own dress, about his hurt shoulder, and drew the bed-clothes
up to his nose.
"But he shan't stay with that nasty Clara,' she said, and moved
the bed, with Nutcracker in it, up to the upper shelf, so that
it was placed near the village in which Fritz's hussars had their
cantonments. She closed the cupboard, and was moving away to go to bed,
when--listen, children! there begun a low soft rustling and rattling,
and a sort of whispering noise, all round, in all directions, from all
quarters of the room--behind the stove, under the chairs, behind the
cupboards. The clock on the wall 'warned' louder and louder, but could
not strike. Marie looked at it, and saw that the big gilt owl which was
on the top of it had drooped its wings so that they covered the whole
of the clock, and had stretched its cat-like head, with the crooked
beak, a long way forward. And the 'warning' kept growing louder and
louder, with distinct words: 'Clocks, clockies, stop ticking. No sound,
but cautious "warning." Mousey king's ears are fine. Prr-prr. Only sing
"poom, poom"; sing the olden song of doom! prr-prr; poom, poom. Bells
go chime! Soon rings out the fated time!' And then came 'Poom! poom!'
quite hoarsely and smothered, twelve times.
"Marie grew terribly frightened, and was going to rush away as best she
could, when she noticed that Godpapa Drosselmeier was up on the top of
the clock instead of the owl, with his yellow coat-tails hanging down
on both sides, like wings. But she manned herself, and called out in a
loud voice of anguish:
"Godpapa! godpapa! what are you up there for? Come down to me, and
don't frighten me so terribly, you naughty, naughty Godpapa
Drosselmeier!'
"But then there begun a sort of wild kickering and queaking,
everywhere, all about, and presently there was a sound as of running
and trotting, as of thousands of little feet behind the walls, and
thousands of little lights began to glitter out between the chinks of
the woodwork. But they were not lights; no, no! little glittering eyes;
and Marie became aware that, everywhere, mice were peeping and
squeezing themselves out through every chink. Presently they were
trotting and galloping in all directions over the room; orderly bodies,
continually increasing, of mice, forming themselves into regular troops
and squadrons, in good order, just as Fritz's soldiers did when
man[oe]uvres were going on. As Marie was not afraid of mice (as many
children are), she could not help being amused by this, and her first
alarm had nearly left her, when suddenly there came such a sharp and
terrible piping noise that the blood ran cold in her veins. Ah! what
did she see then? Well, truly, kind reader, I know that your heart is
in the right place, just as much as my friend Field Marshal Fritz's is,
itself, but if you had seen what now came before Marie's eyes, you
would have made a clean pair of heels of it; nay, I consider that you
would have plumped into your bed, and drawn the blankets further over
your head than necessity demanded.
"But poor Marie hadn't it in her power to do any such thing, because,
right at her feet, as if impelled by some subterranean power, sand, and
lime, and broken stone came bursting up, and then seven mouse-heads,
with seven shining crowns upon them, rose through the floor, hissing
and piping in a most horrible way. Quickly the body of the mouse which
had those seven crowned heads forced its way up through the floor, and
this enormous creature shouted, with its seven heads, aloud to the
assembled multitude, squeaking to them with all the seven mouths in
full chorus; and then the entire army set itself in motion, and went
trot, trot, right up to the cupboard--and, in fact, to Marie, who was
standing beside it.
"Marie's heart had been beating so with terror that she had thought it
must jump out of her breast, and she must die. But now it seemed to her
as if the blood in her veins stood still. Half fainting, she leant
backwards, and then there was a 'klirr, klirr, prr,' and the pane of
the cupboard, which she had broken with her elbow, fell in shivers to
the floor. She felt, for a moment, a sharp, stinging pain in her arm,
but still, this seemed to make her heart lighter; she heard no more of
the queaking and piping. Everything was quiet; and though she didn't
dare to look, she thought the noise of the glass breaking had
frightened the mice back to their holes.
"But what came to pass then? Right behind Marie a movement seemed to
commence in the cupboard, and small, faint voices began to be heard,
saying:
'Come, awake, measures take;
Out to the fight, out to the fight;
Shield the right, shield the right;
Aim and away, this is the night.'
And harmonica-bells began ringing as prettily as you please.
"Oh! that's my little peal of bells!' cried Marie, and went nearer and
looked in. Then she saw that there was bright light in the cupboard,
and everything busily in motion there; dolls and little figures of
various kinds all running about together, and struggling with their
little arms. At this point, Nutcracker rose from his bed, cast off the
bedclothes, and sprung with both feet on to the floor (of the shelf),
crying out at the top of his voice:
'Knack, knack, knack,
Stupid mousey pack,
All their skulls we'll crack.
Mousey pack, knack, knack,
Mousey pack, crick and crack,
Cowardly lot of schnack!'
"And with this he drew his little sword, waved it in the air, and
cried:
"'Ye, my trusty vassals, brethren and friends, are ye ready to stand by
me in this great battle?'
"Immediately three scaramouches, one pantaloon, four chimney-sweeps,
two zither-players, and a drummer cried, in eager accents:
"'Yes, your highness; we will stand by you in loyal duty; we will
follow you to the death, the victory, and the fray!' And they
precipitated themselves after Nutcracker (who, in the excitement of the
moment, had dared that perilous leap) to the bottom shelf. Now _they_
might well dare this perilous leap, for not only had they got plenty of
clothes on, of cloth and silk, but besides, there was not much in their
insides except cotton and sawdust, so that they plumped down like
little wool-sacks. But as for poor Nutcracker, he would certainly have
broken his arms and legs; for, bethink you, it was nearly two feet from
where he had stood to the shelf below, and his body was as fragile as
if he had been made of elm-wood. Yes, Nutcracker would have broken his
arms and legs, had not Miss Clara started up, at the moment of his
spring, from her sofa, and received the hero, drawn sword and all, in
her tender arms.
"'Oh! you dear, good Clara!' cried Marie, 'how I did misunderstand you.
I believe you were quite willing to let dear Nutcracker have your bed.'
"But Miss Clara now cried, as she pressed the young hero gently to her
silken breast:
"'Oh, my lord! go not into this battle and danger, sick and wounded
as you are. See how your trusty vassals, clowns and pantaloon,
chimney-sweeps, zithermen and drummer, are already arrayed below; and
the puzzle-figures, in my shelf here, are in motion, and preparing for
the fray! Deign, then, oh my lord, to rest in these arms of mine, and
contemplate your victory from a safe coign of vantage.'
"Thus spoke Clara. But Nutcracker behaved so impatiently, and kicked so
with his legs, that Clara was obliged to put him down on the shelf in a
hurry. However, he at once sank gracefully on one knee, and expressed
himself as follows:
"'Oh, lady! the kind protection and aid which you have afforded me,
will ever be present to my heart, in battle and in victory!'
"On this, Clara bowed herself so as to be able to take hold of him by
his arms, raised him gently up, quickly loosed her girdle, which was
ornamented with many spangles, and would have placed it about his
shoulders. But the little man drew himself swiftly two steps back, laid
his hand upon his heart, and said, with much solemnity:
"Oh, lady! do not bestow this mark of your favour upon me; for----' He
hesitated, gave a deep sigh, took the ribbon, with which Marie had
bound him, from his shoulders, pressed it to his lips, put it on as a
cognizance for the fight, and, waving his glittering sword, sprang,
like a bird, over the ledge of the cupboard down to the floor.
"You will observe, kind reader, that Nutcracker, even before he really
came to life, had felt and understood all Marie's goodness and regard,
and that it was because of his gratitude and devotion to her, that he
would not take, or wear even, a ribbon of Miss Clara's, although it was
exceedingly pretty and charming. This good, true-hearted Nutcracker
preferred Marie's much commoner and more unpretending token.
"But what is going to happen, further, now? At the moment when
Nutcracker sprang down, the queaking and piping commenced again worse
than ever. Alas! under the big table, the hordes of the mouse army had
taken up a position, densely massed, under the command of the terrible
mouse with the seven heads. So what is to be the result?
"THE BATTLE.
"Beat the _Generale_, trusty vassal-drummer!' cried Nutcracker, very
loud; and immediately the drummer began to roll his drum in the most
splendid style, so that the windows of the glass cupboard rattled and
resounded. Then there began a cracking and a clattering inside, and
Marie saw all the lids of the boxes in which Fritz's army was quartered
bursting open, and the soldiers all came out and jumped down to the
bottom shelf, where they formed up in good order. Nutcracker hurried up
and down the ranks, speaking words of encouragement.
"'There's not a dog of a trumpeter taking the trouble to sound a call!'
he cried in a fury. Then he turned to the pantaloon (who was looking
decidedly pale), and, wobbling his long chin a good deal, said, in a
tone of solemnity:
"'I know how brave and experienced you are, General! What is essential
here, is a rapid comprehension of the situation, and immediate
utilization of the passing moment. I entrust you with the command of
the cavalry and artillery. You can do without a horse; your own legs
are long, and you can gallop on them as fast as is necessary. Do your
duty!'
"Immediately Pantaloon put his long, lean fingers to his month, and
gave such a piercing crow that it rang as if a hundred little trumpets
had been sounding lustily. Then there began a tramping and a neighing
in the cupboard; and Fritz's dragoons and cuirassiers--but above all,
the new glittering hussars--marched out, and thru came to a halt, drawn
up on the floor. They then marched past Nutcracker by regiments, with
_guidons_ flying and bands playing; after which they wheeled into line,
and formed up at right angles to the line of march. Upon this, Fritz's
artillery came rattling up, and formed action front in advance of the
halted cavalry. Then it went 'boom-boom!' and Marie saw the sugar-plums
doing terrible execution amongst the thickly-massed mouse-battalions,
which were powdered quite white by them, and greatly put to shame.
But a battery of heavy guns, which had taken up a strong position
on mamma's footstool, was what did the greatest execution; and
'poom-poom-poom!' kept up a murderous fire of gingerbread nuts into
the enemy's ranks with most destructive effect, mowing the mice down in
great numbers. The enemy, however, was not materially checked in his
advance, and had even possessed himself of one or two of the heavy
guns, when there came 'prr-prr-prr!' and Marie could scarcely see what
was happening, for smoke and dust; but this much is certain, that every
corps engaged fought with the utmost bravery and determination, and it
was for a long time doubtful which side would gain the day. The mice
kept on developing fresh bodies of their forces, as they were advanced
to the scene of action; their little silver balls--like pills in
size--which they delivered with great precision (their musketry
practice being specially fine) took effect even inside the glass
cupboard. Clara and Gertrude ran up and down in utter despair, wringing
their hands, and loudly lamenting.
"Must I--the very loveliest doll in all the world--perish miserably in
the very flower of my youth?' cried Miss Clara.
"'Oh! was it for this,' wept Gertrude, 'that I have taken such pains to
_conserver_ myself all these years? Must I be shot here in my own
drawing-room after all?"
"On this, they fell into each other's arms, and howled so terribly that
you could hear them above all the din of the battle. For you have no
idea of the hurly-burly that went on now, dear auditor! It went
prr-prr-poof, piff-schnetterdeng--schnetterdeng--boom-booroom--boom-
booroom--boom all confusedly and higgledy-piggledy; and the
mouse-king and the mice squeaked and screamed; and then again
Nutcracker's powerful voice was heard shouting words of command, and
issuing important orders, and he was seen striding along amongst his
battalions in the thick of the fire.
'Pantaloon had made several most brilliant cavalry charges, and covered
himself with glory. But Fritz's hussars were subjected--by the mice--to
a heavy fire of very evil-smelling shot, which made horrid spots on
their red tunics; this caused them to hesitate, and hang rather back
for a time. Pantaloon made them take ground to the left, in _échelon_,
and, in the excitement of the moment, he, with his dragoons and
cuirassiers, executed a somewhat analogous movement. That is to say,
they brought up the right shoulder, wheeled to the left, and marched
home to their quarters. This had the effect of bringing the battery of
artillery on the footstool into imminent danger, and it was not long
before a large body of exceedingly ugly mice delivered such a vigorous
assault on this position that the whole of the footstool, with the guns
and gunners, fell into the enemy's hands. Nutcracker seemed much
disconcerted, and ordered his right wing to commence a retrograde
movement. A soldier of your experience, my dear Fritz, knows well that
such a movement is almost tantamount to a regular retreat, and you
grieve, with me, in anticipation, for the disaster which threatens the
army of Marie's beloved little Nutcracker. But turn your glance in the
other direction, and look at this left wing of Nutcracker's, where all
is still going well, and you will see that there is yet much hope for
the commander-in-chief and his cause.
"During the hottest part of the engagement masses of mouse-cavalry had
been quietly debouching from under the chest of drawers, and had
subsequently made a most determined advance upon the left wing of
Nutcracker's force, uttering loud and horrible queakings. But what a
reception they met with! Very slowly, as the nature the _terrain_
necessitated (for the ledge at the bottom of the cupboard had
to be passed), the regiment of motto-figures, commanded by two
Chinese Emperors, advanced, and formed square. These fine,
brilliantly-uniformed troops, consisting of gardeners, Tyrolese,
Tungooses, hairdressers, harlequins, Cupids, lions, tigers, unicorns,
and monkeys, fought with the utmost courage, coolness, and steady
endurance. This _bataillon d'élite_ would have wrested the victory from
the enemy had not one of his cavalry captains, pushing forward in a
rash and foolhardy manner, made a charge upon one of the Chinese
Emperors, and bitten off his head. This Chinese Emperor, in his fall,
knocked over and smothered a couple of Tungooses and a unicorn, and
this created a gap, through which the enemy effected a rush, which
resulted in the whole battalion being bitten to death. But the
enemy gained little advantage by this; for as soon as one of the
mouse-cavalry soldiers bit one of these brave adversaries to death, he
found that there was a small piece of printed paper sticking in his
throat, of which he died in a moment. Still, this was of small
advantage to Nutcracker's army, which, having once commenced a
retrograde movement, went on retreating farther and farther, suffering
greater and greater loss. So that the unfortunate Nutcracker found
himself driven back close to the front of the cupboard, with a very
small remnant of his army.
"'Bring up the reserves! Pantaloon! Scaramouch! Drummer! where the
devil have you got to?' shouted Nutcracker, who was still reckoning on
reinforcements from the cupboard. And there did, in fact, advance a
small contingent of brown gingerbread men and women, with gilt faces,
hats, and helmets; but they laid about them so clumsily that they
never hit any of the enemy, and soon knocked off the cap of their
commander-in-chief, Nutcracker, himself. And the enemy's chasseurs soon
bit their legs off, so that they tumbled topsy-turvy, and killed
several of Nutcracker's companions-in-arms into the bargain.
"Nutcracker was now hard pressed, and closely hemmed in by the enemy,
and in a position of extreme peril, He tried to jump the bottom ledge
of the cupboard, but his legs were not long enough. Clara and Gertrude
had fainted; so they could give him no assistance. Hussars and heavy
dragoons came charging up at him, and he shouted in wild despair:
"'A horse! a horse! My kingdom for a horse!'
"At this moment two of the enemy's riflemen seized him by his wooden
cloak, and the king of the mice went rushing up to him, squeaking in
triumph out of all his seven throats.
"Marie could contain herself no longer. 'Oh! my poor Nutcracker!' she
sobbed, took her left shoe off, without very distinctly knowing what
she was about, and threw it as hard as she could into the thick of the
enemy, straight at their king.
"Instantly everything vanished and disappeared. All was silence.
Nothing to be seen. But Marie felt a more stinging pain than before in
her left arm, and fell on the floor insensible.
"THE INVALID.
"When Marie awoke from a death-like sleep she was lying in her little
bed; and the sun was shining brightly in at the window, which was all
covered with frost-flowers. There was a stranger gentleman sitting
beside her, whom she recognized as Dr. Wendelstern. 'She's awake,' he
said softly, and her mother came and looked at her very scrutinizingly
and anxiously.
"'Oh, mother!' whispered Marie, 'are all those horrid mice gone away,
and is Nutcracker quite safe?'
"'Don't talk such nonsense, Marie,' answered her mother. 'What have the
mice to do with Nutcracker? You're a very naughty girl, and have caused
us all a great deal of anxiety. See what comes of children not doing as
they're told! You were playing with your toys so late last night that
you fell asleep. I don't know whether or not some mouse jumped out and
frightened you, though there are no mice here, generally. But, at all
events, you broke a pane of the glass cupboard with your elbow, and cut
your arm so bally that Dr. Wendelstern (who has just taken a number of
pieces of the glass out of your arm) thinks that if it had been only a
little higher up you might have had a stiff arm for life, or even have
bled to death. Thank Heaven, I awoke about twelve o'clock and missed
you; and I found you lying insensible in front of the glass cupboard,
bleeding frightfully, with a number of Fritz's lead soldiers scattered
round you, and other toys, broken motto-figures, and gingerbread men;
and Nutcracker was lying on your bleeding arm, with your left shoe not
far off.'
"Oh, mother, mother,' said Marie, 'these were the remains of the
tremendous battle between the toys and the mice; and what frightened me
so terribly was that the mice were going to take Nutcracker (who was
the commander-in-chief of the toy army) a prisoner. Then I threw my
shoe in among the mice, and after that I know nothing more that
happened.'
"Dr. Wendelstern gave a significant look at the mother, who said very
gently to Marie:
"'Never mind, dear, keep yourself quiet. The mice are all gone away,
and Nutcracker's in the cupboard, quite safe and sound.'
"Here Marie's father came in, and had a long consultation with Dr.
Wendelstern. Then he felt Marie's pulse, and she heard them talking
about 'wound-fever.' She had to stay in bed, and take medicine, for
some days, although she didn't feel at all ill, except that her arm was
rather stiff and painful. She knew Nutcracker had got safe out of the
battle, and she seemed to remember, as if in a dream, that he had said,
quite distinctly, in a very melancholy tone:
"'Marie! dearest lady! I am most deeply indebted to you. But it is in
your power to do even more for me still.'
"She thought and thought what this could possibly be; but in vain; she
couldn't make it out. She wasn't able to play on account of her arm;
and when she tried to read, or look through the picture-books,
everything wavered before her eyes so strangely that she was obliged to
stop. So that the days seemed very long to her, and she could scarcely
pass the time till evening, when her mother came and sat at her
bedside, telling and reading her all sorts of nice stories. She had
just finished telling her the story of Prince Fakardin, when the door
opened and in came Godpapa Drosselmeier, saying:
"'I've come to see with my own eyes how Marie's getting on.'
"When Marie saw Godpapa Drosselmeier in his little yellow coat, the
scene of the night when Nutcracker lost the battle with the mice came
so vividly back to her that she couldn't help crying out:
"'Oh! Godpapa Drosselmeier, how nasty you were! I saw you quite well
when you were sitting on the clock, covering it all over with your
wings, to prevent it from striking and frightening the mice. I heard
you quite well when you called the mouse-king. Why didn't you help
Nutcracker? Why didn't you help _me_, you nasty godpapa? It's nobody's
fault but yours that I'm lying here with a bad arm.'
"Her mother, in much alarm, asked what she meant. But Drosselmeier
began making extraordinary faces, and said, in a snarling voice, like a
sort of chant in monotone:
"'Pendulums could only rattle--couldn't tick, ne'er a click; all the
clockies stopped their ticking: no more clicking; then they all struck
loud "cling-clang." Dollies! Don't your heads downhang! Hink and hank,
and honk and hank. Doll-girls! don't your heads downhang! Cling and
ring! The battle's over--Nutcracker all safe in clover. Comes the owl,
on downy wing--Scares away the mouses' king. Pak and pik and pik and
pook--clocks, bim-boom--grr-grr. Pendulums must click again. Tick and
tack, grr and brr, prr and purr.'
"Marie fixed wide eyes of terror upon Godpapa Drosselmeier, because he
was looking quite different, and far more horrid, than usual, and was
jerking his right arm backwards and forwards as if he were some puppet
moved by a handle. She was beginning to grow terribly frightened at him
when her mother came in, and Fritz (who had arrived in the meantime)
laughed heartily, crying, 'Why, godpapa, you _are_ going on funnily!
You're just like my old Jumping Jack that I threw away last month.'
"But the mother looked very grave, and said, 'This is a most
extraordinary way of going on, Mr. Drosselmeier. What can you mean by
it?'
"'My goodness!' said Drosselmeier, laughing, 'did you never hear my
nice Watchmaker's Song? I always sing it to little invalids like
Marie.' Then he hastened to sit down beside Marie's bed, and said
to her, 'Don't be vexed with me because I didn't gouge out all the
mouse-king's fourteen eyes. That couldn't be managed exactly; but, to
make up for it, here's something which I know will please you greatly.'
"He dived into one of his pockets, and what he slowly, slowly brought
out of it was--Nutcracker! whose teeth he had put in again quite
firmly, and set his broken jaw completely to rights. Marie shouted for
joy, and her mother laughed and said, 'Now you see for yourself how
nice Godpapa Drosselmeier is to Nutcracker.'
"'But you must admit, Marie,' said her godpapa, 'that Nutcracker is far
from being what you might call a handsome fellow, and you can't say he
has a pretty face. If you like I'll tell you how it was that the
ugliness came into his family, and has been handed down in it from one
generation to another. Did ever you hear about the Princess Pirlipat,
the witch Mouseyrinks, and the clever Clockmaker?'
"I say, Godpapa Drosselmeier,' interrupted Fritz at this juncture,
'you've put Nutcracker's teeth in again all right, and his jaw isn't
wobbly as it was; but what's become of his sword? Why haven't you given
him a sword?'
"Oh,' cried Drosselmeier, annoyed, 'you must always be bothering and
finding fault with something or other, boy. What have I to do with
Nutcracker's sword? I've put his mouth to rights for him; he must look
out for a sword for himself.'
"Yes, yes,' said Fritz, 'so he must, of course, if he's a right sort of
fellow.'
"'So tell me, Marie,' continued Drosselmeier, 'if you know the story of
Princess Pirlipat?'
"'Oh no,' said Marie. 'Tell it me, please--do tell it me!'
"'I hope it won't be as strange and terrible as your stories generally
are,' said her mother.
"'Oh no, nothing of the kind,' said Drosselmeier. 'On the contrary,
it's quite a funny story which I'm going to have the honour of telling
this time.'
"'Go on then--do tell it to us,' cried the children; and Drosselmeier
commenced as follows:--
"THE STORY OF THE HARD NUT.
"Pirlipat's mother was a king's wife, so that, of course, she was a
queen; and Pirlipat herself was a princess by birth as soon as ever she
was born. The king was quite beside himself with joy over his beautiful
little daughter as she lay in her cradle, and he danced round and round
upon one leg, crying again and again,
"'"Hurrah! hurrah! hip, hip, hurrah! Did anybody ever see anything so
lovely as my little Pirlipat?"
"'And all the ministers of state, and the generals, the presidents, and
the officers of the staff, danced about on one leg, as the king did,
and cried as loud as they could, "No, no--never!"
"Indeed, there was no denying that a lovelier baby than Princess
Pirlipat was never born since the world began. Her little face looked
as if it were woven of the most delicate white and rose-coloured silk;
her eyes were of sparkling azure, and her hair all in little curls like
threads of gold. Moreover, she had come into the world with two rows of
little pearly teeth, with which, two hours after her birth, she bit the
Lord High Chancellor in the fingers, when he was making a careful
examination of her features, so that he cried, "Oh! Gemini!" quite
loud.
"'There are persons who assert that "Oh Lord" was the expression he
employed, and opinions are still considerably divided on this point. At
all events, she bit him in the fingers; and the realm learned, with
much gratification, that both intelligence and discrimination dwelt
within her angelical little frame.
"'All was joy and gladness, as I have said, save that the queen was
very anxious and uneasy, nobody could tell why. One remarkable
circumstance was, that she had Pirlipat's cradle most scrupulously
guarded. Not only were there lifeguardsmen always at the doors of
the nursery, but--over and above the two head nurses close to the
cradle--there had always to be six other nurses all round the room at
night. And what seemed rather a funny thing, which nobody could
understand, was that each of these six nurses had always to have a cat
in her lap, and to keep on stroking it all night long, so that it might
never stop purring.
"'It is impossible that you, my reader, should know the reason of all
these precautions; but I do, and shall proceed to tell you at once.
"'Once upon a time, many great kings and very grand princes were
assembled at Pirlipat's father's court, and very great doings were
toward. Tournaments, theatricals, and state balls were going on on the
grandest scale, and the king, to show that he had no lack of gold and
silver, made up his mind to make a good hole in the crown revenues
for once, and launch out regardless of expense. Wherefore (having
previously ascertained, privately, from the state head master
cook that the court astronomer had indicated a propitious hour for
pork-butching), he resolved to give a grand pudding-and-sausage
banquet. He jumped into a state carriage, and personally invited all
the kings and the princes--to a basin of soup, merely--that he might
enjoy their astonishment at the magnificence of the entertainment. Then
he said to the queen, very graciously:
"'"My darling, _you_ know exactly how I like my puddings and sausages!"
"The queen quite understood what this meant. It meant that she should
undertake the important duty of making the puddings and the sausages
herself, which was a thing she had done on one or two previous
occasions. So the chancellor of the exchequer was ordered to issue out
of store the great golden sausage-kettle, and the silver _casseroles_.
A great fire of sandal-wood was kindled, the queen put on her damask
kitchen apron, and soon the most delicious aroma of pudding-broth rose
steaming out of the kettle. This sweet smell penetrated into the very
council chamber. The king could not control himself.
"'"Excuse me for a few minutes, my lords and gentlemen," he cried,
rushed to the kitchen, embraced the queen, stirred in the kettle a
little with his golden sceptre, and then went back, easier in his mind,
to the council chamber.
"'The important juncture had now arrived when the fat had to be
cut up into little square pieces, and browned on silver spits. The
ladies-in-waiting retired, because the queen, from motives of love and
duty to her royal consort, thought it proper to perform this important
task in solitude. But when the fat began to brown, a delicate little
whispering voice made itself audible, saying, "Give me some of that,
sister! I want some of it, too; I am a queen as well as yourself; give
me some."
"'The queen knew well who was speaking. It was Dame Mouseyrinks, who
had been established in the palace for many years. She claimed
relationship to the royal family, and she was queen of the realm of
Mousolia herself, and lived with a considerable retinue of her own
under the kitchen hearth. The queen was a kind-hearted, benevolent
woman; and, although she didn't exactly care to recognize Dame
Mouseyrinks as a sister and a queen, she was willing, at this festive
season, to spare her the tit-bits she had a mind to. So she said, "Come
out, then, Dame Mouseyrinks; of course you shall taste my browned fat."
"'So Dame Mouseyrinks came running out as fast as she could, held up
her pretty little paws, and took morsel after morsel of the browned fat
as the queen held them out to her. But then all Dame Mouseyrink's
uncles, and her cousins, and her aunts, came jumping out too; and her
seven sons (who were terrible ne'er-do-weels) into the bargain; and
they all set-to at the browned fat, and the queen was too frightened to
keep them at bay. Most fortunately the mistress of the robes came in,
and drove these importunate visitors away, so that a little of the
browned fat was left; and this, when the court mathematician (an
ex-senior wrangler of his university) was called in (which he had to
be, on purpose), it was found possible, by means of skilfully devised
apparatus provided with special micrometer screws, and so forth, to
apportion and distribute amongst the whole of the sausages, &c., under
construction.
"'The kettledrums and the trumpets summoned all the great princes and
potentates to the feast. They assembled in their robes of state; some
of them on white palfreys, some in crystal coaches. The king received
them with much gracious ceremony, and took his seat at the head of the
table, with his crown on, and his sceptre in his hand. Even during the
serving of the white pudding course, it was observed that he turned
pale, and raised his eyes to heaven; sighs heaved his bosom; some
terrible inward pain was clearly raging within him. But when the
black-puddings were handed round, he fell back in his seat, loudly
sobbing and groaning.
"'Every one rose from the table, and the court physician tried in vain
to feel his pulse. Ultimately, after the administration of most
powerful remedies--burnt feathers, and the like--his majesty seemed to
recover his senses to some extent, and stammered, scarce audibly, the
words: "Too little fat!"
"'The queen cast herself down at his feet in despair, and cried, in a
voice broken by sobs, "Oh, my poor unfortunate royal consort! Ah, what
tortures you are doomed to endure! But see the culprit here at your
feet! Punish her severely! Alas! Dame Mouseyrinks, her uncles, her
seven sons, her cousins and her aunts, came and ate up nearly all the
fat--and----
"Here the queen fell back insensible.
"'But the king jumped up, all anger, and cried in a terrible voice,
"Mistress of the robes, what is the meaning of this?"
"The mistress of the robes told all she knew, and the king resolved to
take revenge on Dame Mouseyrinks and her family for eating up the fat
which ought to have been in the sausages. The privy council was
summoned, and it was resolved that Dame Mouseyrinks should be tried for
her life, and all her property confiscated. But as his majesty was of
opinion that she might go on consuming the fat, which was his
appanage, the whole matter was referred to the court Clockmaker and
Arcanist--whose name was the same as mine--Christian Elias
Drosselmeier, and he undertook to expel Dame Mouseyrinks and all her
relations from the palace precincts forever, by means of a certain
politico-diplomatic procedure. He invented certain ingenious little
machines, into which pieces of browned fat were inserted; and he placed
these machines down all about the dwelling of Dame Mouseyrinks. Now she
herself was much too knowing not to see through Drosselmeier's
artifice; but all her remonstrances and warnings to her relations were
unavailing. Enticed by the fragrant odour of the browned fat, all her
seven sons, and a great many of her uncles, her cousins and her aunts,
walked into Drosselmeier's little machines, and were immediately taken
prisoners by the fall of a small grating; after which they met with a
shameful death in the kitchen.
"Dame Mouseyrinks left this scene of horror with her small following.
Rage and despair filled her breast. The court rejoiced greatly; the
queen was very anxious, because she knew Dame Mouseyrinks' character,
and knew well that she would never allow the death of her sons and
other relatives to go unavenged. And, in fact, one day when the queen
was cooking a _fricassée_ of sheep's lights for the king (a dish to
which he was exceedingly partial), Dame Mouseyrinks suddenly made her
appearance, and said: "My sons and my uncles, my cousins and my aunts,
are now no more. Have a care, lady, lest the queen of the mice bites
your little princess in two! Have a care!"
"With which she vanished, and was no more seen. But the queen was so
frightened that she dropped the _fricassée_ into the fire; so this was
the second time Dame Mouseyrinks spoiled one of the king's favourite
dishes, at which he was very irate.
"'But this is enough for to-night; we'll go on with the rest of it
another time.'
"Sorely as Marie--who had ideas of her own about this story--begged
Godpapa Drosselmeier to go on with it, he would not be persuaded, but
jumped up, saying, 'Too much at a time wouldn't be good for you; the
rest to-morrow.'
"Just as Drosselmeier was going out of the door, Fritz said: I say,
Godpapa Drosselmeier, was it really you who invented mousetraps?'
"'How can you ask such silly questions?' cried his mother. But
Drosselmeier laughed oddly, and said: 'Well, you know I'm a clever
clockmaker. Mousetraps had to be invented some time or other.'
"And now you know, children,' said Godpapa Drosselmeier the next
evening, 'why it was the queen took such precautions about her little
Pirlipat. Had she not always the fear before her eyes of Dame
Mouseyrinks coming back and carrying out her threat of biting the
princess to death? Drosselmeier's ingenious machines were of no avail
against the clever, crafty Dame Mouseyrinks, and nobody save the court
astronomer, who was also state astrologer and reader of the stars, knew
that the family of the Cat Purr had the power to keep her at bay. This
was the reason why each of the lady nurses was obliged to keep one of
the sons of that family (each of whom was given the honorary rank and
title of "privy councillor of legation") in her lap, and render his
onerous duty less irksome by gently scratching his back.
"One night, just after midnight, one of the chief nurses stationed
close to the cradle, woke suddenly from a profound sleep. Everything
lay buried in slumber. Not a purr to be heard--deep, deathlike silence,
so that the death-watch ticking in the wainscot sounded quite loud.
What were the feelings of this principal nurse when she saw, close
beside her, a great, hideous mouse, standing on its hind legs, with its
horrid head laid on the princess's face! She sprang up with a scream of
terror. Everybody awoke; but then Dame Mouseyrinks (for she was the
great big mouse in Pirlipat's cradle) ran quickly away into the corner
of the room. The privy councillors of legation dashed after her, but
too late! She was off and away through a chink in the floor. The noise
awoke Pirlipat, who cried terribly. "Heaven be thanked, she is still
alive!" cried all the nurses; but what was their horror when they
looked at Pirlipat, and saw what the beautiful, delicate little thing
had turned into. An enormous bloated head (instead of the pretty little
golden-haired one), at the top of a diminutive, crumpled-up body, and
green, wooden-looking eyes staring, where the lovely azure-blue pair
had been, whilst her mouth had stretched across from the one ear to the
other.
"'Of course the queen nearly died of weeping and loud lamentation, and
the walls of the king's study had all to be hung with padded arras,
because he kept on banging his head against them, crying:
"'"Oh! wretched king that I am! Oh, wretched king that I am!"
"'Of course he might have seen, then, that it would have been much
better to eat his puddings with no fat in them at all, and let Dame
Mouseyrinks and her folk stay on under the hearthstone. But Pirlipat's
royal father thought not of that. What he did was to lay all the blame
on the court Clockmaker and Arcanist, Christian Elias Drosselmeier, of
Nürnberg. Wherefore he promulgated a sapient edict to the effect
that said Drosselmeier should, within the space of four weeks,
restore Princess Pirlipat to her pristine condition,--or, at least,
indicate an unmistakable and reliable process whereby that might be
accomplished,--or else suffer a shameful death by the axe of the common
headsman.
"'Drosselmeier was not a little alarmed; but he soon began to place
confidence in his art, and in his luck; so he proceeded to execute the
first operation which seemed to him to be expedient. He took Princess
Pirlipat very carefully to pieces, screwed off her hands and her feet,
and examined her interior structure. Unfortunately, he found that the
bigger she got the more deformed she would be, so that he didn't see
what was to be done at all. He put her carefully together again,
and sank down beside her cradle--which he wasn't allowed to go away
from--in the deepest dejection.
"'The fourth week had come, and Wednesday of the fourth week, when the
king came in, with eyes gleaming with anger, made threatening gestures
with his sceptre, and cried:
"'"Christian Elias Drosselmeier, restore the princess, or prepare for
death!"
"'Drosselmeier began to weep bitterly. The little princess kept on
cracking nuts, an occupation which seemed to afford her much quiet
satisfaction. For the first time the Arcanist was struck by Pirlipat's
remarkable appetite for nuts, and the circumstance that she had been
born with teeth. And the fact had been that immediately after her
transformation she had begun to cry, and she had gone on crying till by
chance she got hold of a nut. She at once cracked it, and ate the
kernel, after which she was quite quiet. From that time her nurses
found that nothing would do but to go on giving her nuts.
"'"Oh, holy instinct of nature--eternal, mysterious, inscrutable
Interdependence of Things!'" cried Drosselmeier, "thou pointest out to
me the door of the secret. I will knock, and it shall be opened unto
me."
"'He at once begged for an interview with the Court Astronomer, and was
conducted to him closely guarded. They embraced, with many tears, for
they were great friends, and then retired into a private closet, where
they referred to many books treating of sympathies, antipathies, and
other mysterious subjects. Night came on. The Court Astronomer
consulted the stars, and, with the assistance of Drosselmeier (himself
an adept in astrology), drew the princess's horoscope. This was an
exceedingly difficult operation, for the lines kept getting more and
more entangled and confused for ever so long. But at last--oh what
joy!--it lay plain before them that all the princess had to do to be
delivered from the enchantment which made her so hideous, and get back
her former beauty, was to eat the sweet kernel of the nut Crackatook.
"'Now this nut Crackatook had a shell so hard that you might have fired
a forty-eight pounder at it without producing the slightest effect on
it. Moreover, it was essential that this nut should be cracked, in the
princess's presence, by the teeth of a man whose beard had never known
a razor, and who had never had on boots. This man had to hand the
kernel to her with his eyes closed, and he might not open them till he
had made seven steps backwards without a stumble.
"'Drosselmeier and the astronomer had been at work on this problem
uninterruptedly for three days and three nights; and on the Saturday
the king was sitting at dinner, when Drosselmeier--who was to have been
beheaded on the Sunday morning--burst joyfully in to announce that he
had found out what had to be done to restore Princess Pirlipat to her
pristine beauty. The king embraced him in a burst of rapture, and
promised him a diamond sword, four decorations, and two Sunday suits.
"'"Set to work immediately after dinner," the monarch cried: adding,
kindly, "Take care, dear Arcanist, that the young unshaven gentleman in
shoes, with the nut Crackatook all ready in his hand, is on the spot;
and be sure that he touches no liquor beforehand, so that he mayn't
trip up when he makes his seven backward steps like a crab. He can get
as drunk as a lord afterwards, if he likes."
"'Drosselmeier was dismayed at this utterance of the king's, and
stammered out, not without trembling and hesitation, that, though the
remedy was discovered, both the nut Crackatook and the young gentleman
who was to crack it had still to be searched for, and that it was
matter of doubt whether they ever would be got hold of at all. The
king, greatly incensed, whirled his sceptre round his crowned head, and
shouted, in the voice of a lion:
"'"Very well, then you must be beheaded!"
"'It was exceedingly fortunate for the wretched Drosselmeier that the
king had thoroughly enjoyed his dinner that day, and was consequently
in an admirable temper, and disposed to listen to the sensible advice
which the queen, who was very sorry for Drosselmeier, did not spare to
give him. Drosselmeier took heart, and represented that he really had
fulfilled the conditions, and discovered the necessary measures, and
had gained his life, consequently. The king said this was all bosh and
nonsense; but at length, after two or three glasses of liqueurs,
decreed that Drosselmeier and the astronomer should start off
immediately, and not come back without the nut Crackatook in their
pockets. The man who was to crack it (by the queen's suggestion) might
be heard of by means of advertisements in the local and foreign
newspapers and gazettes.'
"Godpapa Drosselmeier interrupted his story at this point, and promised
to finish it on the following evening.
"Next evening, as soon as the lights were brought, Godpapa Drosselmeier
duly arrived, and went on with his story as follows:--
"'Drosselmeier and the court astronomer had been journeying for fifteen
long years without finding the slightest trace of the nut Crackatook. I
might go on for more than four weeks telling you where all they had
been, and what extraordinary things they had seen. I shall not do so,
however, but merely mention that Drosselmeier, in his profound
discouragement, at last began to feel a most powerful longing to see
his dear native town of Nürnberg once again. And he was more powerfully
moved by this longing than usual one day, when he happened to be
smoking a pipe of kanaster with his friend in the middle of a great
forest in Asia, and he cried:
"'"Oh, Nürnberg, Nürnberg! dear native town--he who still knows thee
not, place of renown--though far he has travelled, and great cities
seen--as London, and Paris, and Peterwardeen--knoweth not what it is
happy to be--still must his longing heart languish for thee--for thee,
O Nürnberg, exquisite town--where the houses have windows both upstairs
and down!"
"'As Drosselmeier lamented thus dolefully, the astronomer, seized with
compassionate sympathy, began to weep and howl so terribly that he was
heard throughout the length and breadth of Asia. But he collected
himself again, wiped the tears from his eyes, and said:
"'"After all, dearest colleague, why should we sit and weep and howl
here? Why not come to Nürnberg? Does it matter a brass farthing, after
all, where and how we search for this horrible nut Crackatook?"
"'"That's true, too," answered Drosselmeier, consoled. They both got up
immediately, knocked the ashes out of their pipes, started off, and
travelled straight on without stopping, from that forest right in the
centre of Asia till they came to Nürnberg. As soon as they got there,
Drosselmeier went straight to his cousin the toy maker and doll-carver,
and gilder and varnisher, whom he had not seen for a great many long
years. To him he told all the tale of Princess Pirlipat, Dame
Mouseyrinks, and the nut Crackatook, so that he clapped his hands
repeatedly, and cried in amazement:
"'"Dear me, cousin, these things are really wonderful--very wonderful,
indeed!"
"'Drosselmeier told him, further, some of the adventures he had met
with on his long journey--how he had spent two years at the court of
the King of Dates; how the Prince of Almonds had expelled him with
ignominy from his territory; how he had applied in vain to the Natural
History Society at Squirreltown--in short, how he had been everywhere
utterly unsuccessful in discovering the faintest trace of the nut
Crackatook. During this narrative, Christoph Zacharias had kept
frequently snapping his fingers, twisting himself round on one foot,
smacking with his tongue, etc.; then he cried:
"'"Ee--aye--oh!--that really would be the very deuce and all."
"'At last he threw his hat and wig in the air, warmly embraced his
cousin, and cried:
"'"Cousin, cousin, you're a made man--a made man you are--for either I
am much deceived, or I have got the nut Crackatook myself!"
"'He immediately produced a little cardboard box, out of which he took
a gilded nut of medium size.
"'"Look there!" he said, showing this nut to his cousin; "the state of
matters as regards this nut is this. Several years ago, at Christmas
time, a stranger man came here with a sack of nuts, which he offered
for sale. Just in front of my shop he got into a quarrel, and put the
sack down the better to defend himself from the nut-sellers of the
place, who attacked him. Just then a heavily-loaded waggon drove over
the sack, and all the nuts were smashed but one. The stranger man, with
an odd smile, offered to sell me this nut for a twenty-kreuzer piece of
the year 1796. This struck me as strange. I found just such a coin in
my pocket, so I bought the nut, and I gilt it over, though I didn't
know why I took the trouble quite, or should have given so much for
it."
"'All question as to its being really the long-sought nut Crackatook
was dispelled when the Court Astronomer carefully scraped away the
gilding, and found the word "Crackatook" graven on the shell in Chinese
characters.
"The joy of the exiles was great, as you may imagine; and the cousin
was even happier, for Drosselmeier assured him that _he_ was a made man
too, as he was sure of a good pension, and all the gold leaf he would
want for the rest of his life for his gilding, free, gratis, for
nothing.
"'The Arcanist and the Astronomer had both got on their nightcaps, and
were going to turn into bed, when the astronomer said:
"'"I tell you what it is, dear colleague, one piece of good fortune
never comes alone. I feel convinced that we've not only found
the nut, but the young gentleman who is to crack it, and hand the
beauty-restoring kernel to the princess, into the bargain. I mean none
other than your cousin's son here, and I don't intend to close an eye
this night till I've drawn that youngster's horoscope."
"'With which he threw away his nightcap, and at once set to work to
consult the stars. The cousin's son was a nice-looking, well-grown
young fellow, had never been shaved, and had never worn boots. True, he
had been a Jumping Jack for a Christmas or two in his earlier days, but
there was scarcely any trace of this discoverable about him, his
appearance had been so altered by his father's care. He had appeared
last Christmas in a beautiful red coat with gold trimmings, a sword by
his side, his hat under his arm, and a fine wig with a pigtail. Thus
apparelled, he stood in his father's shop exceeding lovely to behold,
and from his native _galanterie_ he occupied himself in cracking nuts
for the young ladies, who called him "the handsome nutcracker."
"'Next morning the Astronomer fell, with much emotion, into the
Arcanist's arms, crying:
"'"This is the very man!--we have got him!--he is found! Only, dearest
colleague, two things we must keep carefully in view. In the first
place, we must construct a most substantial pigtail for this precious
nephew of yours, which shall be connected with his lower jaw in such
sort that it shall be capable of communicating a very powerful pull to
it. And next, when we get back to the Residenz, we must carefully
conceal the fact that we have brought the young gentleman who is to
shiver the nut back with us. He must not make his appearance for a
considerable time after us. I read in the horoscope that if two or
three others bite at the nut unsuccessfully to begin with, the king
will promise the man who breaks it,--and, as a consequence, restores
the princess her good looks,--the princess's hand and the succession to
the crown."
"The doll-maker cousin was immensely delighted with the idea of his
son's marrying Princess Pirlipat, and being a prince and king, so he
gave him wholly over to the envoys to do what they liked with him. The
pigtail which Drosselmeier attached to him proved to be a very powerful
and efficient instrument, as he exemplified by cracking the hardest of
peach-stones with the utmost ease.
"'Drosselmeier and the Astronomer, having at once sent the news to the
Residenz of the discovery of the nut Crackatook, the necessary
advertisements were at once put in the newspapers, and, by the time
that our travellers got there, several nice young gentlemen, among whom
there were princes even, had arrived, having sufficient confidence in
their teeth to try to disenchant the princess. The ambassadors were
horrified when they saw poor Pirlipat again. The diminutive body with
tiny hands and feet was not big enough to support the great shapeless
head. The hideousness of the face was enhanced by a beard like white
cotton, which had grown about the mouth and chin. Everything had turned
out as the court astronomer had read it in the horoscope. One milksop
in shoes after another bit his teeth and his jaws into agonies over the
nut, without doing the princess the slightest good in the world. And
then, when he was carried out on the verge of insensibility by the
dentists who were in attendance on purpose, he would sigh:
"'"Ah dear, that was a hard nut."
"'Now when the king, in the anguish of his soul, had promised to him
who should disenchant the princess his daughter and the kingdom, the
charming, gentle young Drosselmeier made his appearance, and begged to
be allowed to make an attempt. None of the previous ones had pleased
the princess so much. She pressed her little hands to her heart and
sighed:
"'"Ah, I hope it will be he who will crack the nut, and be my husband."
"'When he had politely saluted the king, the queen, and the Princess
Pirlipat, he received the nut Crackatook from the hands of the Clerk of
the Closet, put it between his teeth, made a strong effort with his
head, and--crack--crack--the shell was shattered into a number of
pieces. He neatly cleared the kernel from the pieces of husk which were
sticking to it, and, making a leg, presented it courteously to the
princess, after which he closed his eyes and began his backward steps.
The princess swallowed the kernel, and--oh marvel!--the monstrosity
vanished, and in its place there stood a wonderfully beautiful lady,
with a face which seemed woven of delicate lily-white and rose-red
silk, eyes of sparkling azure, and hair all in little curls like
threads of gold.
"'Trumpets and kettledrums mingled in the loud rejoicings of the
populace. The king and all his court danced about on one leg, as they
had done at Pirlipat's birth, and the queen had to be treated with Eau
de Cologne, having fallen into a fainting fit from joy and delight. All
this tremendous tumult interfered not a little with young
Drosselmeier's self-possession, for he still had to make his seven
backward steps. But he collected himself as best he could, and was just
stretching out his right foot to make his seventh step, when up came
Dame Mouseyrinks through the floor, making a horrible weaking and
squeaking, so that Drosselmeier, as he was putting his foot down, trod
upon her, and stumbled so that he almost fell. Oh misery!--all in an
instant he was transmogrified, just as the princess had been before:
his body all shrivelled up, and could scarcely support the great
shapeless head with enormous projecting eyes, and the wide gaping
mouth. In the place where his pigtail used to be a scanty wooden cloak
hung down, controlling the movements of his nether jaw.
"'The clockmaker and the astronomer were wild with terror and
consternation, but they saw that Dame Mouseyrinks was wallowing in her
gore on the floor. Her wickedness had not escaped punishment, for young
Drosselmeier had squashed her so in the throat with the sharp point of
his shoe that she was mortally hurt.
"'But as Dame Mouseyrinks lay in her death agony she queaked and
cheeped in a lamentable style, and cried:
"'"Oh, Crackatook, thou nut so hard!--Oh, fate, which none may
disregard!--Hee hee, pee pee, woe's me, I cry!--since I through that
hard nut must die.--But, brave young Nutcracker, I see--you soon must
follow after me.--My sweet young son, with sevenfold crown--will soon
bring Master Cracker down.--His mother's death he will repay--so,
Nutcracker, beware that day!--Oh, life most sweet, I feebly cry,--I
leave you now, for I must die. Queak!"
"'With this cry died Dame Mouseyrinks, and her body was carried out by
the Court Stovelighter. Meantime nobody had been troubling themselves
about young Drosselmeier. But the princess reminded the king of his
promise, and he at once directed that the young hero should be
conducted to his presence. But when the poor wretch came forward in his
transmogrified condition the princess put both her hands to her face,
and cried:
"'"Oh please take away that horrid Nutcracker!"
"'So that the Lord Chamberlain seized him immediately by his little
shoulders, and shied him out at the door. The king, furious at the idea
of a nutcracker being brought before him as a son-in-law, laid all the
blame upon the clockmaker and the astronomer, and ordered them both to
be banished for ever.
"'The horoscope which the astronomer had drawn in Nürnberg had said
nothing about this; but that didn't hinder him from taking some fresh
observations. And the stars told him that young Drosselmeier would
conduct himself so admirably in his new condition that he would yet be
a prince and a king, in spite of his transmogrification; but also that
his deformity would only disappear after the son of Dame Mouseyrinks,
the seven-headed king of the mice (whom she had born after the death of
her original seven sons) should perish by his hand, and a lady should
fall in love with him notwithstanding his deformity.
"'That is the story of the hard nut, children, and now you know why
people so often use the expression "that was a hard nut," and why
Nutcrackers are so ugly.'
"Thus did Godpapa Drosselmeier finish his tale. Marie thought the
Princess Pirlipat was a nasty ungrateful thing. Fritz, on the other
hand, was of opinion that if Nutcracker had been a proper sort of
fellow he would soon have settled the mouse king's hash, and got his
good looks back again.
"UNCLE AND NEPHEW.
"Should any of my respected readers or listeners ever have happened to
be cut by glass they will know what an exceedingly nasty thing it is,
and how long it takes to get well. Marie was obliged to stay in bed a
whole week, because she felt so terribly giddy whenever she tried
to stand up; but at last she was quite well again, and able to
jump about as of old. Things in the glass cupboard looked very fine
indeed--everything new and shiny, trees and flowers and houses--toys of
every kind. Above all, Marie found her dear Nutcracker again, smiling
at her in the second shelf, with his teeth all sound and right. As she
looked at this pet of hers with much fondness, it suddenly struck her
that all Godpapa Drosselmeier's story had been about Nutcracker, and
his family feud with Dame Mouseyrinks and her people. And now she knew
that her Nutcracker was none other than young Mr. Drosselmeier, of
Nürnberg, Godpapa Drosselmeier's delightful nephew, unfortunately under
the spells of Dame Mouseyrinks. For whilst the story was being told,
Marie couldn't doubt for a moment that the clever clockmaker at
Pirlipat's father's court was Godpapa Drosselmeier himself.
"But why didn't your uncle help you? Why didn't he help you?' Marie
cried, sorrowfully, as she felt more and more clearly every moment that
in the battle, which she had witnessed, the question in dispute had
been no less a matter than Nutcracker's crown and kingdom. Wern't all
the other toys his subjects? And wasn't it clear that the astronomer's
prophecy that he was to be rightful King of Toyland had come true?'
"Whilst the clever Marie was weighing all these things in her mind, she
kept expecting that Nutcracker and his vassals would give some
indications of being alive, and make some movements as she looked at
them. This, however, was by no means the case. Everything in the
cupboard kept quite motionless and still. Marie thought this was
the effect of Dame Mouseyrinks's enchantments, and those of her
seven-headed son, which still were keeping up their power.
"'But,' she said, 'though you're not able to move, or to say the least
little word to me, dear Mr. Drosselmeier, I know you understand me, and
see how very well I wish you. Always reckon on my assistance when you
require it. At all events, I will ask your uncle to aid you with all
has great skill and talents, whenever there may be an opportunity.'
"Nutcracker still kept quiet and motionless. But Marie fancied that a
gentle sigh came breathing through the glass cupboard, which made its
panes ring in a wonderful, though all but imperceptible, manner--whilst
something like a little bell-toned voice seemed to sing:
"Marie fine, angel mine! I will be thine, if thou wilt be mine!'
"Although a sort of cold shiver ran through her at this, still it
caused her the keenest pleasure.
"Twilight came on. Marie's father came in with Godpapa Drosselmeier,
and presently Louise set out the tea-table, and the family took their
places round it, talking in the pleasantest and merriest manner about
all sorts of things. Marie had taken her little stool, and sat down at
her godpapa's feet in silence. When everybody happened to cease talking
at the same time, Marie looked her godpapa full in the face with her
great blue eyes, and said:
"'I know now, godpapa, that my Nutcracker is your nephew, young Mr.
Drosselmeier from Nürnberg. The prophecy has come true: he is a king
and a prince, just as your friend the astronomer said he would be. But
you know as well as I do that he is at war with Dame Mouseyrinks's
son--that horrid king of the mice. Why don't you help him?'
"Marie told the whole story of the battle, as she had witnessed it, and
was frequently interrupted by the loud laughter of her mother and
sister; but Fritz and Drosselmeier listened quite gravely.
"'Where in the name of goodness has the child got her head filled with
all that nonsense?' cried her father.
"'She has such a lively imagination, you see,' said her mother; 'she
dreamt it all when she was feverish with her arm.'
"'It is all nonsense,' cried Fritz, 'and it isn't true! my red hussars
are not such cowards as all that. If they were, do you suppose I should
command them?'
"But godpapa smiled strangely, and took little Marie on his knee,
speaking more gently to her than ever he had been known to do before.
"'More is given to you, Marie dear,' he said, 'than to me, or the
others. You are a born princess, like Pirlipat, and reign in a bright
beautiful country. But you still have much to suffer, if you mean to
befriend poor transformed Nutcracker; for the king of the mice lies in
wait for him at every turn. But I cannot help him; you, and you only,
can do that. So be faithful and true.'
"Neither Marie nor any of the others knew what Godpapa Drosselmeier
meant by these words. But they struck Dr. Stahlbaum--the father--as
being so strange that he felt Drosselmeier's pulse, and said:
"'There seems a good deal of congestion about the head, my dear sir.
I'll just write you a little prescription.'
"But Marie's mother shook her head meditatively, and said:
"'I have a strong idea what Mr. Drosselmeier means, though I can't
exactly put it in words.'
"VICTORY.
"It was not very long before Marie was awakened one bright moonlight
night by a curious noise, which came from one of the corners of her
room. There was a sound as of small stones being thrown, and rolled
here and there; and between whiles came a horrid cheeping and
squeaking.
"'Oh, dear me! here come these abominable mice again!' cried Marie, in
terror, and she would have awakened her mother. But the noise suddenly
ceased; and she could not move a muscle--for she saw the king of the
mice working himself out through a hole in the wall; and at last he
came into the room, ran about in it, and got on to the little table at
her bed-head with a great jump.
"Hee-hehee!' he cried; 'give me your sweetmeats! out with your cakes,
marchpane and sugar-stick, gingerbread cakes! Don't pause to argue! If
yield them you won't, I'll chew up Nutcracker! See if I don't!'
"As he cried out these terrible words he gnashed and chattered his
teeth most frightfully, and then made off again through the hole in the
wall. This frightened Marie so that she was quite pale in the morning,
and so upset that she scarcely could utter a word. A hundred times she
felt impelled to tell her mother or her sister, or at all events her
brother, what had happened. But she thought, 'of course none of them
would believe me. They would only laugh at me.'
"But she saw well enough that to succour Nutcracker she would have to
sacrifice all her sweet things; so she laid out all she had of them at
the bottom of the cupboard next evening.
"'I can't make out how the mice have got into the sitting-room,' said
her mother. 'This is something quite new. There never were any there
before. See, Marie, they've eaten up all your sweetmeats.'
"And so it was: the epicure mouse king hadn't found the marchpane
altogether to his taste, but had gnawed all round the edges of it, so
that what he had left of it had to be thrown into the ash-pit. Marie
never minded about her sweetmeats, being delighted to think that she
had saved Nutcracker by means of them. But what were her feelings when
next night there came a queaking again close by her ear. Alas! The king
of the mice was there again, with his eyes glaring worse than the night
before.
"Give me your sugar toys,' he cried; give them you must, or else I'll
chew Nutcracker up into dust!'
"Then he was gone again.
"Marie was very sorry. She had as beautiful a collection of sugar-toys
as ever a little girl could boast of. Not only had she a charming
little shepherd, with his shepherd looking after a flock of milk-white
sheep, with a nice dog jumping about them, but two postmen with letters
in their hands, and four couples of prettily dressed young gentlemen
and most beautifully dressed young ladies, swinging in a Russian swing.
Then there were two or three dancers, and behind them Farmer
Feldkuemmel and the Maid of Orleans. Marie didn't much care about
_them_; but back in the corner there was a little baby with red cheeks,
and this was Marie's darling. The tears came to her eyes.
"'Ah!' she cried, turning to Nutcracker, 'I really will do all I can to
help you. But it's very hard.'
"Nutcracker looked at her so piteously that she determined to sacrifice
everything--for she remembered the mouse king with all his seven mouths
wide open to swallow the poor young fellow; so that night she set down
all her sugar figures in front of the cupboard, as she had the
sweetmeats the night before. She kissed the shepherd, the shepherdess,
and the lambs; and at last she brought her best beloved of all, the
little red-cheeked baby from its corner, but did put it a little
further back than the rest. Farmer Feldkuemmel and the Maid of Orleans
had to stand in the front rank of all.
"'This is really getting too bad,' said Marie's mother the next
morning; 'some nasty mouse or other must have made a hole in the glass
cupboard, for poor Marie's sugar figures are all eaten and gnawed.'
Marie really could not restrain her tears. But she was soon able to
smile again; for she thought, 'What does it matter? Nutcracker is
safe.'
"In the evening Marie's mother was telling her father and Godpapa
Drosselmeier about the mischief which some mouse was doing in the
children's cupboard, and her father said:
"'It's a regular nuisance! What a pity it is that we can't get rid of
it. It's destroying all the poor child's things.'
"Fritz intervened, and remarked:
"The baker downstairs has a fine grey Councillor-of-Legation; I'll go
and get hold of him, and he'll soon put a stop to it, and bite the
mouse's head off, even if it's Dame Mouseyrinks herself, or her son,
the king of the mice.'
"'Oh, yes!' said his mother, laughing, 'and jump up on to the chairs
and tables, knock down the cups and glasses, and do ever so much
mischief besides.'
"'No, no!' answered Fritz; 'the baker's Councillor-of-Legation's a very
clever fellow. I wish I could walk about on the edge of the roof, as he
does.'
"'Don't let us have a nasty cat in the house in the night-time,' said
Louise, who hated cats.
"Fritz is quite right though,' said the mother; 'unless we set a trap.
Haven't we got such a thing in the house?'
"Godpapa Drosselmeier's the man to get us one,' said Fritz; 'it was he
who invented them, you know.' Everybody laughed. And when the mother
said they did not possess such a thing, Drosselmeier said he had
plenty; and he actually sent a very fine one round that day. When the
cook was browning the fat, Marie--with her head full of the marvels of
her godpapa's tale--called out to her:
"Ah, take care, Queen! Remember Dame Mouseyrinks and her people.' But
Fritz drew his sword, and cried, 'Let them come if they dare! I'll give
an account of them.' But everything about the hearth remained quiet and
undisturbed. As Drosselmeier was fixing the browned fat on a fine
thread, and setting the trap gently down in the glass cupboard, Fritz
cried:
"'Now, Godpapa Clockmaker, mind that the mouse king doesn't play you
some trick!'
"Ah, how did it fare with Marie that night? Something as cold as ice
went tripping about on her arm, and something rough and nasty laid
itself on her cheek, and cheeped and queaked in her ear. The horrible
mouse king came and sat on her shoulder, foamed a blood-red foam out of
all his seven mouths, and chattering and grinding his teeth, he hissed
into Marie's ear:
"'Hiss, hiss!--keep away--don't go in there--ware of that house--don't
you be caught--death to the mouse--hand out your picture-books--none of
your scornful looks!--Give me your dresses--also your laces--or, if you
don't, leave you I won't--Nutcracker I'll bite--drag him out of your
sight--his last hour is near--so tremble for fear!--Fee, fa, fo,
fum--his last hour is come!--Hee hee, pee pee--queak--queak!'
"Marie was overwhelmed with anguish and sorrow, and was looking quite
pale and upset when her mother said to her next morning:
"'This horrid mouse hasn't been caught. But never mind, dear, we'll
catch the nasty thing yet, never fear. If the traps won't do, Fritz
shall fetch the grey Councillor of Legation.'
"As soon as Marie was alone, she went up to the glass cupboard, and
said to Nutcracker, in a voice broken by sobs:
"'Ah, my dear, good Mr. Drosselmeier, what can I do for you, poor
unfortunate girl that I am! Even if I give that horrid king of the mice
all my picture-books, and my new dress which the Child Christ gave me
at Christmas as well, he's sure to go on asking for more; so I soon
shan't have anything more left, and he'll want to eat me! Oh, poor
thing that I am! What shall I do? What shall I do?'
"As she was thus crying and lamenting, she noticed that a great spot of
blood had been left, since the eventful night of the battle, upon
Nutcracker's neck. Since she had known that he was really young Mr.
Drosselmeier, her godpapa's nephew, she had given up carrying him in
her arms, and petting and kissing him; indeed, she felt a delicacy
about touching him at all. But now she took him carefully out of his
shelf, and began to wipe off this blood-spot with her handkerchief.
What were her feelings when she found that Nutcracker was growing
warmer and warmer in her hand, and beginning to move! She put him back
into the cupboard as fast as she could. His mouth began to wobble
backwards and forwards, and he began to whisper, with much difficulty:
"'Ah, dearest Miss Stahlbaum--most precious of friends! How deeply I am
indebted to you for everything--for _everything_! But don't, don't
sacrifice any of your picture-books or pretty dresses for me. Get me a
sword--a sword is what I want. If you get me that, I'll manage the
rest--though--he may----'
"There Nutcracker's speech died away, and his eyes, which had been
expressing the most sympathetic grief, grew staring and lifeless again.
"Marie felt no fear; she jumped for joy, rather, now that she knew how
to help Nutcracker without further painful sacrifices. But where on
earth was she to get hold of a sword for him? She resolved to take
counsel with Fritz; and that evening, when their father and mother had
gone out, and they two were sitting beside the glass cupboard, she told
him what had passed between her and Nutcracker with the king of the
mice, and what it was that was required to rescue Nutcracker.
"The thing which chiefly exercised Fritz's mind was Marie's statement
as to the unexemplary conduct of his red hussars in the great battle.
He asked her once more, most seriously, to assure him if it really was
the truth; and when she had repeated her statement, on her word of
honour, he advanced to the cupboard, and made his hussars a most
affecting address; and, as a punishment for their behaviour, he
solemnly took their plumes one by one out of their busbies, and
prohibited them from sounding the march of the hussars of the guard for
the space of a twelvemonth. When he had performed this duty, he turned
to Marie, and said:
"As far as the sword is concerned, I have it in my power to assist
Nutcracker. I placed an old Colonel of Cuirassiers on retirement on a
pension, no longer ago than yesterday, so that he has no further
occasion for his sabre, which is sharp.'
"This Colonel was settled, on his pension, in the back corner of the
third shelf. He was fetched out from thence, and his sabre--still a
bright and handsome silver weapon--taken off, and girt about
Nutcracker.
"Next night Marie could not close an eye for anxiety. About
midnight she fancied she heard a strange stirring and noise in the
sitting-room--a rustling and a clanging--and all at once came a shrill
'Queak!'
"'The king of the mice! The king of the mice!' she cried, and jumped
out of bed, all terror. Everything was silent; but soon there came a
gentle tapping at the door of her room, and a soft voice made itself
heard, saying:
"Please to open your door, dearest Miss Stahlbaum! Don't be in the
least degree alarmed; good, happy news!'
"It was Drosselmeier's voice--young Drosselmeier's, I mean. She threw
on her dressing-gown, and opened the door as quickly as possible. There
stood Nutcracker, with his sword, all covered with blood, in his right
hand, and a little wax taper in his left. When he saw Marie he knelt
down on one knee, and said:
"'It was you, and you only, dearest lady, who inspired me with knightly
valour, and steeled me with strength to do battle with the insolent
caitiff who dared to insult you. The treacherous king of the mice lies
vanquished and writhing in his gore! Deign, lady, to accept these
tokens of victory from the hand of him who is, till death, your true
and faithful knight.'
"With this Nutcracker took from his left arm the seven crowns of the
mouse king, which he had ranged upon it, and handed them to Marie, who
received them with the keenest pleasure. Nutcracker rose, and continued
as follows:
"Oh! my best beloved Miss Stahlbaum, if you would only take the trouble
to follow me for a few steps, what glorious and beautiful things I
could show you, at this supreme moment when I have overcome my
hereditary foe! Do--do come with me, dearest lady!'
"TOYLAND.
"I feel quite convinced, children, that none of you would have
hesitated for a moment to go with good, kind Nutcracker, who had always
shown himself to be such a charming person, and Marie was all the more
disposed to do as he asked her, because she knew what her just claims
on his gratitude were, and was sure that he would keep his word, and
show her all sorts of beautiful things. So she said:
"'I will go with you, dear Mr. Drosselmeier; but it mustn't be very
far, and it won't do to be very long, because, you know, I haven't had
any sleep yet.'
"'Then we will go by the shortest route,' said Nutcracker, 'although it
is, perhaps, rather the most difficult.'
"He went on in front, followed by Marie, till he stopped before the big
old wardrobe. Marie was surprised to see that, though it was generally
shut, the doors of it were now wide open, so that she could see her
father's travelling cloak of fox-fur hanging in the front. Nutcracker
clambered deftly up this cloak, by the edgings and trimmings of it, so
as to get hold of the big tassel which was fastened at the back of it
by a thick cord. He gave this tassel a tug, and a pretty little ladder
of cedar-wood let itself quickly down through one of the arm-holes of
the cloak.
"'Now, Miss Stahlbaum, step up that ladder, if you will be so kind,'
said Nutcracker. Marie did so. But as soon as she had got up through
the arm-hole, and begun to look out at the neck, all at once a dazzling
light came streaming on to her, and she found herself standing on a
lovely, sweet-scented meadow, from which millions of sparks were
streaming upward, like the glitter of beautiful gems.
"This is Candy Mead, where we are now,' said Nutcracker. 'But we'll go
in at that gate there.'
"Marie looked up and saw a beautiful gateway on the meadow, only a few
steps off. It seemed to be made of white, brown, and raisin-coloured
marble; but when she came close to it she saw it was all of baked
sugar-almonds and raisins, which--as Nutcracker said when they were
going through it--was the reason it was called 'Almond and Raisin
Gate.' There was a gallery running round the upper part of it,
apparently made of barley-sugar, and in this gallery six monkeys,
dressed in red doublets, were playing on brass instruments in the most
delightful manner ever heard; so that it was all that Marie could do to
notice that she was walking along upon a beautiful variegated marble
pavement, which, however, was really a mosaic of lozenges of all
colours. Presently the sweetest of odours came breathing round her,
streaming from a beautiful little wood on both sides of the way. There
was such a glittering and sparkling among the dark foliage, that one
could see all the gold and silver fruits hanging on the many-tinted
stems, and these stems and branches were all ornamented and dressed up
in ribbons and bunches of flowers, like brides and bridegrooms, and
festive wedding guests. And as the orange perfume came wafted, as if on
the wings of gentle zephyrs, there was a soughing among the leaves and
branches, and all the goldleaf and tinsel rustled and tinkled like
beautiful music, to which the sparkling lights could not help dancing.
"'Oh, how charming this is!' cried Marie, enraptured.
"'This is Christmas Wood, dearest Miss Stahlbaum,' said Nutcracker,
"Ah!' said Marie, 'if I could only stay here for a little! Oh, it is so
lovely!'
"Nutcracker clapped his little hands, and immediately there appeared a
number of little shepherds and shepherdesses, and hunters and
huntresses, so white and delicate that you would have thought they were
made of pure sugar, whom Marie had not noticed before, although they
had been walking about in the wood: and they brought a beautiful gold
reclining chair, laid down a white satin cushion in it, and politely
invited Marie to take a seat. As soon as she did so, the shepherds and
shepherdesses danced a pretty ballet, to which the hunters and
huntresses played the music on their horns, and then they all
disappeared amongst the thickets.
"I must really apologize for the poor style in which this dance was
executed, dearest Miss Stahlbaum,' said Nutcracker. 'These people all
belong to our Wire Ballet Troupe, and can only do the same thing over
and over again. Had we not better go on a little farther?'
"'Oh, I'm sure it was all most delightful, and I enjoyed it immensely!'
said Marie, as she stood up and followed Nutcracker, who was going on
leading the way. They went by the side of a gently rippling brook,
which seemed to be what was giving out all the perfume which filled the
wood.
"'This is Orange Brook,' said Nutcracker; 'but, except for its sweet
scent, it is nothing like as fine a water as the River Lemonade, a
beautiful broad stream, which falls--as this one does also--into the
Almond-milk Sea.'
"And, indeed, Marie soon heard a louder plashing and rushing, and came
in sight of the River Lemonade, which went rolling along in swelling
waves of a yellowish colour, between banks covered with a herbage and
underwood which shone like green carbuncles. A remarkable freshness and
coolness, strengthening heart and breast, exhaled from this fine river.
Not far from it a dark yellow stream crept sluggishly along, giving out
a most delicious odour; and on its banks sat numbers of pretty
children, angling for little fat fishes, which they ate as soon as they
caught them. These fish were very much like filberts, Marie saw when
she came closer. A short distance farther, on the banks of this stream,
stood a nice little village. The houses of this village, and the
church, the parsonage, the barns, and so forth, were all dark brown
with gilt roofs, and many of the walls looked as if they were plastered
over with lemon-peel and shelled almonds.
"'That is Gingerthorpe on the Honey River,' said Nutcracker. 'It is
famed for the good looks of its inhabitants; but they are very
short-tempered people, because they suffer so much from tooth-ache. So
we won't go there at present.'
"At this moment Marie caught sight of a little town where the houses
were all sorts of colours and quite transparent, exceedingly pretty to
look at. Nutcracker went on towards this town, and Marie heard a noise
of bustle and merriment, and saw some thousands of nice little folks
unloading a number of waggons which were drawn up in the market-place.
What they were unloading from the waggons looked like packages of
coloured paper, and tablets of chocolate.
"'This is Bonbonville,' Nutcracker said. 'An embassy has just arrived
from Paperland and the King of Chocolate. These poor Bonbonville people
have been vexatiously threatened lately by the Fly-Admiral's forces, so
they are covering their houses over with their presents from Paperland,
and constructing fortifications with the fine pieces of workmanship
which the Chocolate-King has sent them. But oh! dearest Miss Stahlbaum,
we are not going to restrict ourselves to seeing the small towns and
villages of this country. Let us be off to the metropolis.'
"He stepped quickly onwards, and Marie followed him, all expectation.
Soon a beautiful rosy vapour began to rise, suffusing everything with a
soft splendour. She saw that this was reflected from a rose-red,
shining water, which went plashing and rushing away in front of them in
wavelets of roseate silver. And on this delightful water, which kept
broadening and broadening out wider and wider, like a great lake, the
loveliest swans were floating, white as silver, with collars of gold.
And, as if vieing with each other, they were singing the most beautiful
songs, at which little fish, glittering like diamonds, danced up and
down in the rosy ripples.
"'Oh!' cried Marie, in the greatest delight, 'this must be the lake
which Godpapa Drosselmeier was once going to make for me, and I am the
girl who is to play with the swans.'
"Nutcracker gave a sneering sort of laugh, such as she had never seen
in him before, and said:
"'My uncle could never make a thing of this kind. You would be much
more likely to do it yourself. But don't let us bother about that.
Rather let us go sailing over the water, Lake Rosa here, to the
metropolis.'
"THE METROPOLIS.
"Nutcracker clapped his little hands again, and the waves of Lake Rosa
began to sound louder and to plash higher, and Marie became aware of a
sort of car approaching from the distance, made wholly of glittering
precious stones of every colour, and drawn by two dolphins with scales
of gold. Twelve of the dearest little negro boys, with head-dresses and
doublets made of humming-birds' feathers woven together, jumped to
land, and carried first Marie and then Nutcracker, gently gliding
above the water, into the car, which immediately began to move along
over the lake of its own accord. Ah! how beautiful it was when Marie
went onward thus over the waters in the shell-shaped car, with the
rose-perfume breathing around her, and the rosy waves plashing. The two
golden-scaled dolphins lifted their nostrils, and sent streams of
crystal high in the air; and as these fell down in glittering,
sparkling rainbows, there was a sound as of two delicate, silvery
voices, singing, 'Who comes over the rosy sea?--Fairy is she.
Bim-bim--fishes; sim-sim--swans; sfa-sfa--golden birds; tratrah, rosy
waves, wake you, and sing, sparkle and ring, sprinkle and kling--this
is the fairy we languish to see--coming at last to us over the sea.
Rosy waves dash--bright dolphins play--merrily, merrily on!'
"But the twelve little black boys at the back of the car seemed to take
some umbrage at this song of the water-jets; for they shook the
sunshades they were holding so that the palm leaves they were made of
clattered and rattled together; and as they shook them they stamped an
odd sort of rhythm with their feet, and sang:
"'Klapp and klipp, and klipp and klapp, and up and down.'
"'Negroes are merry, amusing fellows,' said Nutcracker, a little put
out; 'but they'll set the whole lake into a state of regular mutiny on
my hands!' And in fact there did begin a confused, and confusing, noise
of strange voices which seemed to be floating both in the water and in
the air. However, Marie paid no attention to it, but went on looking
into the perfumed rosy waves, from each of which a pretty girl's face
smiled back to her.
"Oh! look at Princess Pirlipat,' she cried, clapping her hands with
gladness, 'smiling at me so charmingly down there! Do look at her, Mr.
Drosselmeier.'
"But Nutcracker sighed, almost sorrowfully, and said:
"'That is not Princess Pirlipat, dearest Miss Stahlbaum, it is only
yourself; always your own lovely face smiling up from the rosy waves.'
At this Marie drew her head quickly back, closed her eyes as tightly as
she could, and was terribly ashamed. But just then the twelve negroes
lifted her out of the car and set her on shore. She found herself in a
small thicket or grove, almost more beautiful even than Christmas Wood,
everything glittered and sparkled so in it. And the fruit on the trees
was extraordinarily wonderful and beautiful, and not only of very
curious colours, but with the most delicious perfume.
"'Ah!' said Nutcracker, 'here we are in Comfit Grove, and yonder lies
the metropolis.'
"How shall I set about describing all the wonderful and beautiful
sights which Marie now saw, or give any idea of the splendour and
magnificence of the city which lay stretched out before her on a
flowery plain? Not only did the walls and towers of it shine in the
brightest and most gorgeous colours, but the shapes and appearance of
the buildings were like nothing to be seen on earth. Instead of roofs
the houses had on beautiful twining crowns, and the towers were
garlanded with beautiful leaf-work, sculptured and carved into
exquisite, intricate designs. As they passed in at the gateway, which
looked as if it was made entirely of macaroons and sugared fruits,
silver soldiers presented arms, and a little man in a brocade
dressing-gown threw himself upon Nutcracker's neck, crying:
"'Welcome, dearest prince! welcome to Sweetmeatburgh!'
"Marie wondered not a little to see such a very grand personage
recognise young Mr. Drosselmeier as a prince. But she heard such a
number of small delicate voices making such a loud clamouring and
talking, and such a laughing and chattering going on, and such a
singing and playing, that she couldn't give her attention to anything
else, but asked Drosselmeier what was the meaning of it all.
"'Oh, it is nothing out of the common, dearest Miss Stahlbaum,' he
answered. 'Sweetmeatburgh is a large, populous city, full of mirth and
entertainment. This is only the usual thing that is always going on
here every day. Please to come on a little farther.'
"After a few paces more they were in the great marketplace, which
presented the most magnificent appearance. All the houses which were
round it were of filagreed sugar-work, with galleries towering above
galleries; and in the centre stood a lofty cake covered with sugar, by
way of obelisk, with fountains round it spouting orgeade, lemonade, and
other delicious beverages into the air. The runnels at the sides of the
footways were full of creams, which you might have ladled up with a
spoon if you had chosen. But prettier than all this were the delightful
little people who were crowding about everywhere by the thousand,
shouting, laughing, playing, and singing, in short, producing all that
jubilant uproar which Marie had heard from the distance. There were
beautifully dressed ladies and gentlemen, Greeks and Armenians,
Tyrolese and Jews, officers and soldiers, clergymen, shepherds,
jack-puddings, in short, people of every conceivable kind to be found
in the world.
"The tumult grew greater towards one of the corners; the people
streamed asunder. For the Great Mogul happened to be passing along
there in his palanquin, attended by three-and-ninety grandees of the
realm, and seven hundred slaves. But it chanced that the Fishermen's
Guild, about five hundred strong, were keeping a festival at the
opposite corner of the place; and it was rather an unfortunate
coincidence that the Grand Turk took it in his head just at this
particular moment to go out for a ride, and crossed the square with
three thousand Janissaries. And, as if this were not enough, the grand
procession of the Interrupted Sacrifice came along at the same time,
marching up towards the obelisk with a full orchestra playing, and the
chorus singing:
"'Hail! all hail to the glorious sun!'
"So there was a thronging and a shoving, a driving and a squeaking; and
soon lamentations arose, and cries of pain, for one of the fishermen
had knocked a Brahmin's head off in the throng, and the Great Mogul had
been very nearly run down by a jack-pudding. The din grew wilder and
wilder. People were beginning to shove one another, and even to come to
fisticuffs; when the man in the brocade dressing-gown who had welcomed
Nutcracker as prince at the gate, clambered up to the top of the
obelisk, and, after a very clear-tinkling bell had rung thrice,
shouted, very loudly, three several times:
"Pastrycook! pastrycook! pastrycook!'
"Instantly the tumult subsided. Everybody tried to save his bacon as
quickly as he could; and, after the entangled processions had been got
disentangled, the dirt properly brushed off the Great Mogul, and the
Brahmin's head stuck 011 again all right, the merry noise went on just
the same as before.
"'Tell me why that gentleman called out "Pastrycook," Mr. Drosselmeier,
please,' said Marie.
"'Ah! dearest Miss Stahlbaum,' said Nutcracker, 'in this place
"Pastrycook" means a certain unknown and very terrible Power, which, it
is believed, can do with people just what it chooses. It represents the
Fate, or Destiny, which rules these happy little people, and they stand
in such awe and terror of it that the mere mention of its name quells
the wildest tumult in a moment, as the burgomaster has just shown.
Nobody thinks further of earthly matters, cuffs in the ribs, broken
heads, or the like. Every one retires within himself, and says:
"'"What is man? and what his ultimate destiny?"'
"Marie could not forbear a cry of admiration and utmost astonishment as
she now found herself all of a sudden before a castle, shining in
roseate radiance, with a hundred beautiful towers. Here and there at
intervals upon its walls were rich bouquets of violets, narcissus,
tulips, carnations, whose dark, glowing colours heightened the dazzling
whiteness, inclining to rose-colour, of the walls. The great dome of
the central building, as well as the pyramidal roofs of the towers,
were set all over with thousands of sparkling gold and silver stars.
"'Aha!' said Nutcracker, 'here we are at Marchpane Castle at last!'
"Marie was sunk and absorbed in contemplation of this magic palace. But
the fact did not escape her that the roof was wanting to one of the
principal towers, and that little men, up upon a scaffold made of
sticks of cinnamon, were busy putting it on again. But before she had
had time to ask Nutcracker about this, he said:
"This beautiful castle was a short time since threatened with
tremendous havoc, if not with total destruction. Sweet-tooth the giant
happened to be passing by, and he bit off the top of that tower there,
and was beginning to gnaw at the great dome. But the Sweetmeatburgh
people brought him a whole quarter of the town by way of tribute, and a
considerable slice of Comfit Grove into the bargain. This stopped his
mouth, and he went on his way.'
"At this moment soft, beautiful music was heard, and out came twelve
little pages with lighted clove-sticks, which they held in their little
hands by way of torches. Each of their heads was a pearl, their bodies
were emeralds and rubies, and their feet were beautifully-worked pure
gold. After them came four ladies about the size of Marie's Miss Clara,
but so gloriously and brilliantly attired that Marie saw in a moment
that they could be nothing but princesses of the blood royal. They
embraced Nutcracker most tenderly, and shed tears of gladness, saying:
"'Oh, dearest prince! beloved brother!'
"Nutcracker seemed deeply affected. He wiped away his tears, which
flowed thick and fast, and then he took Marie by the hand and said,
with much pathos and solemnity:
"This is Miss Marie Stahlbaum, the daughter of a most worthy medical
man, and the preserver of my life. Had she not thrown her slipper just
in the nick of time--had she not procured me the pensioned Colonel's
sword--I should have been lying in my cold grave at this moment, bitten
to death by the accursed king of the mice. I ask you to tell me
candidly, can Princess Pirlipat, princess though she be, compare for a
moment with Miss Stahlbaum here in beauty, in goodness, in virtues of
every kind? My answer is, emphatically "No."'
"All the ladies cried 'No;' and they fell upon Marie's neck with sobs
and tears, and cried:
"Ah! noble preserver of our beloved royal brother! Excellent Miss
Stahlbaum!'
"They now conducted Marie and Nutcracker into the castle, to a hall
whose walls were composed of sparkling crystal. But what delighted
Marie most of all was the furniture. There were the most darling little
chairs, bureaus, writing-tables, and so forth, standing about
everywhere, all made of cedar or Brazil-wood, covered with golden
flowers. The princesses made Marie and Nutcracker sit down, and said
that they would themselves prepare a banquet. So they went and brought
quantities of little cups and dishes of the finest Japanese porcelain,
and spoons, knives and forks, graters and stew-pans, and other kitchen
utensils of gold and silver. Then they fetched the most delightful
fruits and sugar things--such as Marie had never seen the like of--and
began to squeeze the fruit in the daintiest way with their little
hands, and to grate the spices and rub down the sugar-almonds; in
short, they set to work so skilfully that Marie could see very well how
accomplished they were in kitchen matters, and what a magnificent
banquet there was going to be. Knowing her own skill in this line, she
wished, in her secret heart, that she might be allowed to go and help
the princesses, and have a finger in all these pies herself. And the
prettiest of Nutcracker's sisters, just as if she had read the wishes
of Marie's heart, handed her a little gold mortar, saying:
"'Sweet friend, dear preserver of my brother, would you mind just
pounding a little of this sugar-candy?'
"Now as Marie went on pounding in the mortar with good will and
the utmost enjoyment--and the sound of it was like a lovely
song--Nutcracker began to relate, with much minuteness and prolixity,
all that had happened on the occasion of the terrible engagement
between his forces and the army of the king of the mice; how he had had
the worst of it on account of the bad behaviour of his troops; how the
horrible mouse king had all but bitten him to death, so that Marie had
had to sacrifice a number of his subjects who were in her service,
etc., etc.
"During all this it seemed to Marie as if what Nutcracker was
saying--and even the sound of her own mortar--kept growing more and
more indistinct, and going farther and farther away. Presently she saw
a silver mistiness rising up all about, like clouds, in which the
princesses, the pages, Nutcracker, and she herself were floating. And a
curious singing and a buzzing and humming began, which seemed to die
away in the distance; and then she seemed to be going up--up--up, as if
on waves constantly rising and swelling higher and higher, higher and
higher, higher and higher.
"CONCLUSION.
"And then came a 'prr-poof,' and Marie fell down from some
inconceivable height.
"That was a crash and a tumble!
"However, she opened her eyes, and, lo and behold, there she was in her
own bed! It was broad daylight, and her mother was standing at her
bedside, saying:
"'Well, what a sleep you have had! Breakfast has been ready for ever so
long.'
"Of course, dear audience, you see how it was. Marie, confounded and
amazed by all the wonderful things she had seen, had fallen asleep at
last in Marchpane Castle, and the negroes or the pages, or perhaps the
princesses themselves, had carried her home and put her to bed.
"'Oh, mother darling,' said Marie, what a number of places young Mr.
Drosselmeier has taken me to in the night, and what beautiful things I
have seen!' And she gave very much the same faithful account of it all
as I have done to you.
"Her mother listened, looking at her with much astonishment, and, when
she had finished, said:
"'You have had a long, beautiful dream, Marie; but now you must put it
all out of your head.'
"Marie firmly maintained that she had not been dreaming at all; so her
mother took her to the glass cupboard, lifted out Nutcracker from his
usual position on the third shelf, and said:
"'You silly girl, how can you believe that this wooden figure can have
life and motion?'
"'Ah, mother,' answered Marie, 'I know perfectly well that Nutcracker
is young Mr. Drosselmeier from Nürnberg, Godpapa Drosselmeier's
nephew.'
"Her father and mother both burst out into ringing laughter.
"'It's all very well your laughing at poor Nutcracker, father,' cried
Mary, almost weeping; 'but he spoke very highly of _you_; for when we
arrived at Marchpane Castle, and he was introducing me to his sisters,
the princesses, he said you were a most worthy medical man.'
The laughter grew louder, and Louise, and even Fritz, joined in it.
Marie ran into the next room, took the mouse king's seven crowns from
her little box, and handed them to her mother, saying:
"Look there, then, dear mother; those are the mouse king's seven crowns
which young Mr. Drosselmeier gave me last night as a proof that he had
got the victory.'
"Her mother gazed in amazement at the little crowns, which were made of
some very brilliant, wholly unknown metal, and worked more beautifully
than any human hands could have worked them. Dr. Stahlbaum could not
cease looking at them with admiration and astonishment either, and both
the father and the mother enjoined Marie most earnestly to tell them
where she really had got them from. But she could only repeat what she
had said before; and when her father scolded her, and accused her of
untruthfulness, she began to cry bitterly, and said:
"'Oh, dear me; what can I tell you except the truth, poor unfortunate
girl that I am!'
"At this moment the door opened, and Godpapa Drosselmeier came in,
crying:
'"Hullo! hullo! what's all this? My little Marie crying? What's all
this? what's all this?'
"Dr. Stahlbaum told him all about it, and showed him the crowns. As
soon as he had looked at them, however, he cried out:
"'Stuff and nonsense! stuff and nonsense! These are the crowns I used
to wear on my watch-chain. I gave them as a present to Marie on her
second birthday. Do you mean to tell me you don't remember?'
"None of them _did_ remember anything of the kind. But Marie, seeing
that her father and mother's faces were clear of clouds again, ran up
to her godpapa, crying:
"'You know all about the affair, Godpapa Drosselmeier; tell it to them
then. Let them know from your own lips that my Nutcracker is your
nephew, young Mr. Drosselmeier from Nürnberg, and that it was he who
gave me the crowns.' But Drosselmeier made a very angry face, and
muttered, 'Stupid stuff and nonsense!' upon which Marie's father took
her in front of him, and said, with much earnestness:
"'Now just look here, Mario; let there be an end of all this foolish
trash and absurd nonsense for once and for all; I'm not going to allow
any more of it; and if ever I hear you say again that that idiotic,
misshapen Nutcracker is your godpapa's nephew, I shall shy, not only
Nutcracker, but all your other playthings--Miss Clara not excepted--out
of the window.'
"Of course poor Marie dared not utter another word concerning that
which her whole mind was full of, for you may well suppose that it was
impossible for anyone who had seen all that she had seen to forget it.
And I regret to say that even Fritz himself at once turned his back on
his sister whenever she wanted to talk to him about the wondrous realm
in which she had been so happy. Indeed, he is said to have frequently
murmured, 'Stupid goose!' between his teeth, though I can scarcely
think this compatible with his proved kindness of heart. This much,
however, is matter of certainty, that, as he no longer believed what
his sister said, he now, on a public parade, formally recanted what he
had said to his red hussars, and, in the place of the plumes he had
deprived them of, gave them much taller and finer ones of goose quills,
and allowed them to sound the march of the hussars of the guard as
before.
"Marie did not dare to say anything more of her adventures. But the
memories of that fairy realm haunted her with a sweet intoxication, and
the music of that delightful, happy country still rang sweetly in her
ears. Whenever she allowed her thoughts to dwell on all those glories
she saw them again, and so it came about that, instead of playing as
she used to do, she sat quiet and meditative, absorbed within herself.
Everybody found fault with her for being this sort of little dreamer.
"It chanced one day that Godpapa Drosselmeier was repairing one of the
clocks in the house, and Marie was sitting beside the glass cupboard,
sunk in her dreams and gazing at Nutcracker. All at once she said, as
if involuntarily:
"Ah, dear Mr. Drosselmeier, if you really were alive, _I_ shouldn't be
like Princess Pirlipat, and despise you because you had had to give up
being a nice handsome gentleman for my sake!'
"'Stupid stuff and nonsense!' cried Godpapa Drosselmeier.
"But, as he spoke, there came such a tremendous bang and shock that
Marie fell from her chair insensible.
"When she came back to her senses her mother was busied about her and
said:
"How could you go and tumble off your chair in that way, a big girl
like you? Here is Godpapa Drosselmeier's nephew come from Nürnberg. See
how good you can be.'
"Marie looked up. Her godpapa had got on his yellow coat and his glass
wig, and was smiling in the highest good-humour. By the hand he was
holding a very small but very handsome young gentleman. His little face
was red and white; he had on a beautiful red coat trimmed with gold
lace, white silk stockings and shoes, with a lovely bouquet of flowers
in his shirt frill. He was beautifully frizzed and powdered, and had a
magnificent queue hanging down his back. The little sword at his side
seemed to be made entirely of jewels, it sparkled and shone so, and the
little hat under his arm was woven of flocks of silk. He gave proof of
the fineness of his manners in that he had brought for Marie a quantity
of the most delightful toys--above all, the very same figures as those
which the mouse king had eaten up--as well as a beautiful sabre for
Fritz. He cracked nuts at table for the whole party; the very hardest
did not withstand him. He placed them in his mouth with his left hand,
tugged at his pigtail with his right, and crack! they fell in pieces.
"Marie grew red as a rose at the sight of this charming young
gentleman; and she grew redder still when, after dinner, young
Drosselmeier asked her to go with him to the glass cupboard in the
sitting-room.
"'Play nicely together, children,' said Godpapa Drosselmeier; 'now that
my clocks are all nicely in order, I can have no possible objection.'
"But as soon as young Drosselmeier was alone with Marie, he went down
on one knee, and spake as follows:
"'Ah! my most dearly-beloved Miss Stahlbaum! 'see here at your feet the
fortunate Drosselmeier, whose life you saved here on this very spot.
You were kind enough to say, plainly and unmistakably, in so many
words, that you would not have despised me, as Princess Pirlipat did,
if I had been turned ugly for your sake. Immediately I ceased to
be a contemptible Nutcracker, and resumed my former not altogether
ill-looking person and form. Ah! most exquisite lady! bless me with
your precious hand; share with me my crown and kingdom, and reign with
me in Marchpane Castle, for there I now am king.'
"Marie raised him, and said gently:
"'Dear Mr. Drosselmeier, you are a kind, nice gentleman; and as you
reign over a delightful country of charming, funny, pretty people, I
accept your hand.'
"So then they were formally betrothed; and when a year and a day had
come and gone, they say he came and fetched her away in a golden coach,
drawn by silver horses. At the marriage there danced two-and-twenty
thousand of the most beautiful dolls and other figures, all glittering
in pearls and diamonds; and Marie is to this day the queen of a realm
where all kinds of sparkling Christmas Woods, and transparent Marchpane
Castles--in short, the most wonderful and beautiful things of every
kind--are to be seen--by those who have the eyes to see them.
"So this is the end of the tale of Nutcracker and the King of the
Mice."
"Tell me, dear Lothair," said Theodore, "how you can call your
'Nutcracker and the King of the Mice' a children's story? It is
impossible that children should follow the delicate threads which run
through the structure of it, and hold together its apparently
heterogeneous parts. The most they could do would be to keep hold of
detached fragments, and enjoy those, here and there."
"And is that not enough?" answered Lothair. "I think it is a great
mistake to suppose that clever, imaginative children--and it is only
they who are in question here--should content themselves with the empty
nonsense which is so often set before them under the name of Children's
Tales. They want something much better; and it is surprising how much
they see and appreciate which escapes a good, honest, well-informed
papa. Before I read this story to you, I read it to the only sort of
audience whom I look upon as competent critics of it, to wit, my
sister's children. Fritz, who is a great soldier, was delighted with
his namesake's army, and the battle carried him away altogether. He
cried 'prr and poof, and schmetterdeng, and boom booroom,' after me, in
a ringing voice; jigged about on his chair, and cast an eye towards his
sword, as if he would go to Nutcracker's aid when he got into danger.
He had never read Shakespeare, or the recent newspaper accounts of
fighting; so that all the significance of the military strategy and
evolutions connected with that greatest of battles escaped him
completely, as well as 'A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!' And
in the same way dear little Eugenie thoroughly appreciated, in her kind
heart, Marie's regard for little Nutcracker, and was moved to tears
when she sacrificed her playthings and her picture-books--even her
little Christmas dress--to rescue her darling; and doubted not for a
moment as to the existence of the glittering Candy Mead on to which
Marie stepped from the neck of the mysterious fox-fur cloak in her
father's wardrobe. The account of Toyland delighted the children more
than I can tell."
"That part of your story," said Ottmar, "keeping in view the
circumstance that the readers or listeners are to be children, I think
the most successful. The interpolation of the story of the Hard Nut,
although the 'cement' of the whole lies there, I consider to be a
fault, because the story is--in appearance at all events--complicated
and confused by it, and it rather stretches and broadens the threads.
You have declared that we are incompetent critics, and so reduced us to
silence; but I cannot help telling you that, if you bring this tale
before the public, many very rational people--particularly those who
never have been children themselves (which is the case with many)--will
shrug their shoulders and shake their heads, and say the whole affair
is a pack of stupid nonsense; or, at all events, that some attack of
fever must have suggested your ideas, because nobody in his sound and
sober senses could have written such a piece of chaotic monstrosity."
"Very good," said Lothair, "to such a head-shaker I should make a
profound reverence, lay my hand on my heart, and assure him that it is
little service to an author if all sorts of fancies dawn upon him in a
confused dream, unless he can discuss them with himself by the light of
sound reason and judgment, and work out the threads of them firmly and
soberly. Moreover, I would say that no description of work demands a
clear and quiet mind more absolutely than just this; for, although it
must have the effect of flashing out in all directions with the most
arbitrary disregard of all rules, it must contain a firm kernel within
it."
"Nobody can gainsay you in this," said Cyprian. "Still, it must always
be a risky undertaking to bring the utterly fanciful into the domain of
everyday life, and clap mad, enchanted caps on to the heads of grave
and sober folks--judges, students, and Masters of the Rolls--so that
they go gliding about like ghosts in broad daylight up and down the
most frequented streets of the most familiar towns, and one does not
know what to think of his most respectable neighbours. It is true that
this brings with it a certain tone of irony, which acts as a spur to
the lazy spirit, or rather entices it, unobservedly, with a plausible
face, into this unaccustomed province."
"But the said tone of irony," said Theodore, "is capable of becoming
a most dangerous pitfall; for the pleasantness of the plot and
execution--which we have a right to demand in all tales of the
kind--may very easily trip over it and go tumbling to the bottom."
"But I do not believe it is possible to lay down definite canons for
the construction of stories of this kind," said Lothair. "Tieck, the
profound and glorious master--the creator of the most delightful
works of the 'tale' class--has only placed a very few scattered,
instructive hints on the subject in the mouths of the characters in his
'Phantasus.' According to them, the conditions are, a quietly
progressive tone of the narrative; a certain guilelessness in the
relation, which, like gently fantasising music, enters the soul without
noise or din. There should be no bitter after-taste left behind by it,
but only a sense of enjoyment, echoing on. But is this sufficient to
define the only admissible tone for this species of literature?
However, I don't wish to think any more about my 'Nutcracker.' I feel
that it is pervaded by what I may call 'overflowing spirits' to too
great an extent; and I have thought too much of grown-up people and
their ways and doings; for the rest, I have had to promise the little
critics in my sister's nursery to get another story ready for them by
next Christmas, and I undertake to keep it in a quieter tone. For
to-day, I think we ought to be thankful that I have summoned you
up out of the dreadful mine-shaft at Falun to the light of day, and
restored you to the good humour and good spirits which become Serapion
Brethren--particularly at the moment of parting, for I hear the clock
striking twelve."
"May Serapion continue to protect and aid us," cried Theodore, rising
and elevating his glass, "and enable us to describe what we have seen
with the eye of the spirit, in graphic and apposite words."
The Brethren drank the toast, and parted.
* * * * *
SECTION THIRD.
"There can be no question," said Lothair, when the Serapion Brethren
were next assembled, "that our Cyprian--just as was the case on the St.
Serapion's Day when our Brotherhood was founded--has something strange
occupying his mind and thoughts. He is pale and disturbed; listens to
our conversation with only half an ear; and seems, though present in
the body, to be far away in spirit."
"Then," said Ottmar, "the best thing he can do is to out with the story
of the madman whose name-day he is probably celebrating."
"And discharge the contents of his brain in eccentric sparks just
as he pleases," added Theodore; "for I know that he will then become
humanly-minded again, and come back to our circle, which he will have
to content himself with as best he may."
"You are doing me an injustice," said Cyprian; "for instead of my being
preoccupied with anything relating to insanity, I bring you a piece of
news which ought to delight you all. Our friend Sylvester has come back
here to-day from his long stay in the country."
The friends welcomed this announcement with shouts; for they were all
much attached to the quiet but brilliant and kindly Sylvester, whose
inward poesy shone forth in the mildest and most beauteous radiance.
"No more worthy Serapion Brother than our Sylvester could possibly
exist," said Theodore. "He is quiet and thoughtful: it is true it costs
some trouble to kindle him up to the point of clear utterance; but
probably there never was any one more susceptive of the work of other
people. Though he is a man of few words himself, one reads in his face,
in the clearest traits, the impression which the words of others
produce upon him; and when his kindliness and talent stream forth in
his looks and whole being, I feel myself more kind and more clever in
his presence--more free and more happy."
"The truth is," said Ottmar, "that Sylvester is a very remarkable man
just on that account. The poets of the present day seem all to go
storming, of set purpose, up above the level of that unpretending
modesty which ought to be considered the most marked and essential
quality of the true poet-nature; and even the better-minded among them
have need to be careful that, in the mere maintenance of their rights,
they should abstain from drawing that sword which the great majority of
them never lay out of their hands. But Sylvester goes about weaponless,
like a guileless child. We have often accused him of indolence, and
told him that, considering the wealth of his intellect, he writes too
little. But must people go on writing continually? When Sylvester sits
down and fixes some inner image into words, there is sure to be some
irresistible impulse constraining him to do so. He never writes
anything that he has not most vividly felt, and seen; and therefore he
must come amongst us as a perfect Serapion Brother."
"I have a dislike to all odd numbers," said Lothair, "except the mystic
and pleasant number seven; and I think that five Serapion Brethren
would never answer, but that six, on the other hand, would sit very
comfortably about this round table. Sylvester has arrived to-day; and
very shortly that restless, wandering spirit, Vincent, will be casting
anchor here too. We all know him; and we are aware that, except for the
kindness of heart which he possesses in common with Sylvester, he is
the most absolute contrast to him, in all respects, that it would be
possible to find. Sylvester is quiet and meditative; whilst Vincent
boils over with wit and high spirits. He has an inexhaustible faculty
of clothing everything in bizarre imagery--the most everyday matters,
as well as the most extraordinary; as, moreover, he says everything in
a clear, almost piercing voice, and with the drollest pathos, his talk
is often like a set of magic-lantern slides, carrying the attention
along in constant, unresting alternation and change, without allowing
it to pause and contemplate anything quietly."
"You have drawn a most striking portrait of Vincent," said Theodore;
"but there is one of his characteristics which we must not lose
sight of, that, with all his brilliant qualities, and constant
firework-volleys of humour, he is, heart and soul, devoted to mysticism
of every kind, and introduces it into his pursuits in rich measure. You
know he has taken up medicine as a profession?"
"Yes," said Ottmar; "and, by the way, he is the most eager champion of
Mesmerism to be found, and I must say that I have heard from his lips
the most acute and profound observations possible on that somewhat
obscure subject."
"Ho ho!" said Lothair, laughing, "have you gone to be schooled by all
the magnetisers since the days of Mesmer, that you can be so very
certain as to 'the most acute and profound things possible' that can be
said about Mesmerism? No doubt, if dreams and reveries have to be
brought within the confines of any given system, Vincent, by reason of
his clear-sightedness, is the very man to do it better than thousands
of others. And he treats everything with a jovial good-temper which is
always very delightful. Some time since he happened, in the course of
his peregrinations, to be with me in a certain place, and it chanced
that I had an unendurable nervous headache. Nothing would do it the
slightest good. Vincent came in, and I told him what was the matter.
'What!' he cried, in that clear-toned voice of his, 'you have a
headache?--a mere trifle! I can conjure headaches away in ten minutes'
time; send them wherever you choose--into the arm-chair, or the
ink-bottle, or out of the window!' And he began making his mesmeric
passes. They did not do me the slightest good, but I could not help
laughing most heartily; and Vincent, delighted, cried, 'See how I've
conquered your headache in a moment!' Unfortunately I was compelled to
answer that the headache was just as bad as ever. But Vincent said I
was only feeling a sort of after-echo of the former pain. After-echo or
not, it lasted for several days. I take this opportunity of declaring
to my respected Serapion Brethren that I have not the slightest belief
in the curative effects of Mesmerism; the most careful and ingenious
researches on this subject seem to me to be much like the theorisings
of the Royal Society of England on the question proposed to them by the
King: why a vessel of water with a ten-pound fish in it should not
weigh more than a similar vessel containing water alone? Several of the
philosophers had solved the problem successfully, and were about to lay
the results of their wisdom before the King, when one, a little more
practical than the others, suggested that the experiment should be
tried. When this was done, the fish weighed down the balance, as it
could not but do. The basis of all the ingenious reasoning did not
exist."
"Ah ha!" said Lothair, "incredulous, prosaic Schismatic! how was it,
since you don't believe in Mesmerism,--how was it--but I must tell you,
Cyprian and Theodore, this little story at full length, so that the
shame of the contemptuous unbelief which Lothair has just avowed may
return upon his head. You have probably heard that Lothair had an
illness some time ago, the principal seat of which was in his nervous
system. It came upon him in an indescribable manner; destroyed all his
fine spirits and good temper, and spoilt all his enjoyment of life. I
went one day to see him, all compassion and sympathy. I found him
sitting in an arm-chair, with a cap drawn over his ears; pale, worn-out
by a sleepless night, with his eyes closed. In front of him (whom
Heaven has not endowed with the most gigantic dimensions in the world),
sat a personage almost as diminutive as himself, breathing upon him,
drawing the tips of his fingers along his spine, laying his hand on his
epigastrium, and asking him, in a soft, whispering voice:
"'How do you feel now, Lothair?'
"And Lothair opened his eyes, smiled pathetically, and sighed out:
"'Better, doctor; much better.'
"In short, Lothair, who has no faith in the curative effects of
Mesmerism; who says Mesmerism is all nonsense; who laughs the
whole thing to scorn, and considers it all mere charlatanry and
deception--Lothair was having himself mesmerized!"
Cyprian and Theodore laughed heartily over this rather grotesque
picture.
"Pray don't talk of such things," said Lothair. "Man, by virtue of his
wonderful organization, is, alas! such a feeble creature the physical
element in him has such an injurious influence on the psychical that
every illness, every abnormal condition, awakens an alarm and anxiety
in him which, being a temporary insanity, causes him to do the most
extraordinary things. Plenty of clever and rational men, when they have
thought their doctors' prescriptions were not working as they expected
them to do, have had recourse to old women's nostrums, or 'sympathetic
media,' and I don't know what all. That I, at the time in question,
when my nerves were all out of order, inclined to Mesmerism, is a proof
of my weakness, but not of anything else."
"I," said Cyprian, "must beg you to allow me rather to believe that the
doubts respecting Mesmerism which you have expressed to-night are only
the results of some passing mental mood of the moment. What is
Mesmerism, considered as to its curative effects, but the concentrated,
increased, potentiated power of man's psychical element, empowered, by
being thus concentrated and augmented, thoroughly to control the
physical element; to know it, see it, and understand it through and
through; to detect the minutest abnormal condition in it, and, by the
very knowledge and perception of any such abnormal condition, to remove
it? It is not possible that you can deny this power of our psychical
element, or close your ears to the marvellous chords which come toning
into us, and pass toning out from us--mysterious 'music of the
spheres,'--the grand, unchangeable principle of Nature herself."
"You are talking in your usual strain," answered Lothair, "revelling in
your mystic dreams as you always do. I admit at once that Mesmerism,
stretching, as it undoubtedly does, into the domain of the ghostly,
must always exercise a powerful attraction on poetic temperaments. I
myself cannot deny that this mysterious subject has always penetrated
to the very depths of my soul. But listen while I make my confession of
faith in a few words. Who can penetrate, with foolhardy presumption,
into the deepest mysteries of Nature? Who can understand, or even
conjecture, with any sort of clearness, the nature of the mysterious
bond which unites soul and body, and, in consequence, is the
fundamental condition of our existence? Yet it is exactly upon the
cognizance of this mystery that Mesmerism is wholly based; and so long
as this cognizance is an impossibility, both the theory and the
practice of Mesmerism (which are grounded upon isolated experiments,
often illusory), are like the gropings of the born-blind. It is certain
that there occur states of exaltation in which the spirit, ruling over
the body and controlling its activity, acts with much power, and, in so
acting, produces phenomena of the most extraordinary description. Dim
presciences and fore-anticipations assume distinct shape and form; and
we see and understand, with the fullest powers of comprehension, things
as yet slumbering deep and motionless in our souls. Dreams (which are
undoubtedly the most wonderful phenomena belonging to the human
organism, and, as I consider, appear in their most potentiated form in
what is called, in general terms, 'somnambulism') belong to this
province. But it is also certain that such conditions presuppose the
existence of some abnormality in the relation between the psychical and
the physical principles. The most distinct and vivid dreams come to us
always when some diseased or morbid feeling is affecting the body. The
spirit takes advantage of the inactive condition of its co-regent;
taken possession of the throne, and turns that co-regent into a servile
vassal. So that Mesmerism, also, is a result of some diseased or morbid
condition of the body. It may also happen that Nature may frequently
establish a psychical dualism, during which the mutual inter-play of
the two principles produces highly remarkable phenomena. But I consider
that it is Nature only which should produce this dualism, and that
every attempt to produce it artificially, without Queen Nature's
command, at one's own will and pleasure, is dangerous and rash, if not
wicked. I go even further. I cannot deny that it is possible to produce
this potentiated condition of the psychical element--of course all
experience would be against me if I did. The psychical principle
belonging to a given person can, in the process of mesmeric
manipulation, become embodied, and can stream out from the mesmerizer
in the form of some 'fluid' (or whatever one may choose to term it),
and seize upon and govern the psychical principle of another--the
person mesmerized--producing a state which is at variance with all the
ordinary conditions of human life, and the usual rules of existence,
and which, even in its celebrated 'ecstatic forms,' comprehends in
itself all the awesomeness of the mysterious spirit realm. All this, I
say, I can by no means deny; but I must always look upon this process
as the blind exercise of an evil power, whose effects and results, in
spite of all theory, cannot be predicted or relied upon. Mesmerism is
somewhere defined as a dangerous weapon in the hands of a child; and
with that definition I thoroughly agree. If human beings are to set to
work to operate at will upon each other's spiritual elements, the
doctrine of the Barbarini school of spiritualists, who work purely by
faith and will, without any manipulations, seems to me to be much the
purest and most innocuous. The fixing of the firm will is a discreet
and sober question put to Nature whether the dualism of spirit is to be
established or not in any particular case; and it is she alone who
decides it and answers it. Similarly, people's magnetising themselves,
at the 'Bacquet' (as it was called) without any intervention of a
mesmerizer, may be considered less dangerous, inasmuch as no influence
of a foreign possibly hostile or hurtful spiritual principle can then
be exercised. But think of the hosts of people who now practise this
most mysterious of all sciences if it is to be called a science
light-mindedly, or in complete self-deception, where they do not do it
altogether for parade or notoriety! Bartels, in his 'Physiology and
Physics of Mesmerism,' quotes the saying of a foreign physician, in
which he expresses his surprise that the German doctors treat, and
experiment upon, mesmeric subjects, just as if they were pieces of
lifeless apparatus. Unfortunately this is perfectly true, and therefore
I prefer to disbelieve in the curative effects of mesmerism, at all
events, than to entertain the idea that the uncanny exercise and
influence of another person's spiritual principle might some day
destroy my own life beyond the possibility of remedy."
"What results," said Theodore, "from what you have said not without
much truth and profundity about mesmerism is, that you have made up
your mind, from mere dread of the consequences, never to allow any
mesmerist in the world to make any of his manipulations on the ganglia
of your back, or elsewhere. So far as regards your dread of the effect
of a foreign spiritual principle, I quite agree with you. And I beg to
be allowed by way of an illustrative note to your confession of faith
to add an account of my own experiences in mesmerism. A college friend
of mine who was studying medicine was the first to introduce me to this
mysterious subject. You, who know me so very intimately, will have no
difficulty in understanding how it took entire possession of my mind. I
read everything bearing on the subject that I could get hold of, and
finally Klug's book on 'Mesmerism as a Curative Agent.' This book
caused some doubts to arise in me, as, without being very luminously
scientific in its mode of treating the subject, it is based chiefly on
cases, besides mixing up proved facts with matter wholly legendary. My
friend rebutted all my objections, and at last proved to me that the
mere study of the theory would never awaken that faith which was
essential, and which could only be attained by witnessing mesmeric
experiments. At this time there was no opportunity of seeing any at the
University; for even if a promising mesmeric operator had been to be
found, there did not appear to be any one with any disposition to
become somnambulistic or clairvoyant.
"I went to the Residenz, and there mesmerism was in its fullest flower.
Nobody talked of anything but the wonderful magnetic crises of a
talented and accomplished lady of position, who, after some not very
important nerve-attacks, had, almost of herself, become first a
'sonnambule,' and then the most remarkable clairvoyante that (by the
verdict of all who were authorities on the subject) ever had been, or
ever could be, seen. I managed to make the acquaintance of the doctor
who attended and treated her; and, seeing that I was a student eager
for knowledge, he promised to take me to this lady when she was in one
of her crises. This he accordingly did. One day he said, 'Come to me at
six this afternoon, for I know that my patient has just fallen into the
magnetic sleep.' Full of the most eager anticipation, I went with him
to the elegantly, nay, sumptuously, appointed room. Rose-coloured
curtains were carefully drawn over the windows, so that the rays of the
evening sun, passing through them, tinted everything with a magic
roseate shimmer. The 'subject' was lying, dressed in a beautiful and
becoming morning dress, stretched on the sofa, with her eyes fast
closed, breathing gently as if in a profound sleep.
"In a wide circle around her, several devotees were ranged. There were
one or two young ladies, who were rolling their eyes and sighing
profoundly, and who would evidently have been but too happy to become
subjects on the spot themselves, for the edification of the handsome
officer and the other nice-looking young gentleman, who both seemed to
be eagerly looking forward to this important moment; besides some
elderly ladies who were watching, with bent heads and folded hands,
every breath drawn by their sleeping friend.
The coming on of the highest condition of clairvoyance was expected
momentarily. The mesmerizer, who did not take the trouble to place
himself _en rapport_ with his subject, as, he said, the _rapport_
between them was continually in existence, went near her, and began to
talk with her. She specified the times during the day when he had been
thinking of her with special vividness, and mentioned many other
circumstances which had occurred to him. At last she asked him to put
away the ring which he had in his pocket in a red morocco case, and
which he had never had with him before, because the gold of it, and
particularly the diamond, affected her painfully. With every mark of
the profoundest astonishment, the mesmerist stepped back, and took the
described ring, in its case, out of his pocket. He had only got it that
afternoon from the jeweller's, and the subject could have been
conscious of its existence in no other way than by the _rapport_
between them. This miracle had such an effect on the young ladies that
they both sunk down into easy-chairs, sighing deeply; and a few passes
by the mesmerizer speedily sent them both into a profound sleep.
"The fatal morocco case being got out of the way, the mesmerizer,
chiefly for my edification, put his patient through some 'feats' (if I
may so term them). She sneezed when he took snuff. She read a letter
which he placed upon her pericardium, and so forth. At last he tried
whether he could place me _en rapport_ with her through himself, and
succeeded admirably. She described me minutely from head to foot, and
said she had known beforehand that her mesmerizer was going to bring a
friend with him that day, and had long had a clear presentiment within
her of him, and of the manner of man he was. She appeared to be well
pleased with my proximity. Suddenly she ceased speaking, and raised
herself into a partly sitting posture. I fancied I observed a trembling
of her eyelids, and a slight twitching of her lips. The Mesmerizer told
us she was passing into the fifth stage--that of self-contemplation and
detachment from the external world. This distracted the attention of
the two young gentlemen from the young ladies, just as they were
beginning to be extremely interesting. One of them had got the length
of stating that the hair of the officer (whom she had got _en rapport_
with) was emitting a strange and beautiful light; the other announced
that the general's lady, who occupied the floor below, was at that
moment drinking very fine caravan tea, the aroma of which she could
scent through the floor, and, moreover, she prophesied,
clairvoyantically, that she would wake from her mesmeric sleep in a
quarter of an hour, and drink some tea herself, and also eat some
tea-cake into the bargain. But the lady in the High Condition began to
speak again, in an altogether altered voice, which had a strange, and,
as I must admit, remarkably beautiful tone. What she said, moreover,
was couched in such mystic phraseology, and extraordinary expressions,
that I could make no sense of it. But the mesmerizer told us she was
saying the most glorious, the most profound, and the most instructive
things on the subject of her own stomach. This, of course, I had to
take for granted. Quitting the theme of her stomach (to rely again upon
her mesmerizer's interpretation), she soared away upon a loftier
flight. Sometimes it seemed to me that there occurred whole passages
which I had read somewhere or other; I had an idea that I had met with
them in Novalis's 'Fragments,' perhaps, or in Schelling's 'Weltseele.'
And then she fell back rigid upon her cushions. Her mesmerizer expected
her to awake directly, and begged us to go away, because it might have
a painful effect upon her if she found strangers about her when she
awoke. So we were sent about our business. The two young ladies, about
whom nobody had given themselves any further trouble, had thought it as
well to wake up some little time before, and slip quietly away.
"You cannot imagine the odd impression this whole scene had produced
upon me. To say nothing of the two silly girls--who, of course, would
have been only too happy to emerge from their uninteresting position as
mere spectators--I could not drive away the idea that the lady on the
sofa was playing--with very considerable talent and ability--a
thoroughly studied, well got-up, carefully rehearsed part. I was
perfectly certain that the mesmerist was the most sincere and
honourable of human beings, and would have abhorred any 'comedy' of
the sort from the bottom of his heart; so that I was convinced that
he--even from a desire to make converts to the true faith--would never
for one moment have lent himself to anything in the shape of deception.
Consequently, if there was any deception in the case, it must rest with
the lady, whose acting was more than a match for the scientific
doctor's powers of observation. I did not dare to ask myself what
object she could have in subjecting herself to such a process of
self-torture--for self-torture such a feigned condition of exaltation
must certainly be. There have been, as we know, devil-possessed
Ursulines--nuns who mewed like cats, horrible creatures who dislocated
their own limbs; to say nothing of the woman in the hospital at
Würzburg who, regardless of the frightful torture she endured, bored
pieces of glass and needles into her lancet wounds, merely to astonish
her doctor at the strangeness of the substances to be found within her.
We know that there have, at all times, been hosts of women who have
risked health and life, honour, fair fame, and freedom, solely that the
world might look upon them as extraordinary beings, and talk of the
marvels connected with them. But to return to the lady in question. I
ventured, though with much diffidence, to formulate my doubts to the
doctor. But he replied, with a smile, that doubts like these were
nothing but the last feeble struggles of the vanquished intelligence.
The lady, he said, had several times declared that my proximity
affected her favourably, so that he had every reason to desire me to
continue my visits, which, he was certain, would convince me in the
end. In fact, after going to see her several times, I did begin to be
more convinced, and my belief almost became absolute when, once that
the mesmerizer had placed me _en rapport_ with her in one of her higher
conditions, she mentioned, in an incomprehensible manner, certain
circumstances in my previous life, and spoke, particularly, of an
affection of the nervous system into which I fell at a time when I had
lost a beloved sister. It displeased me much, however, that the number
of spectators kept increasing, and that the mesmerizer tried to convert
the lady into a prophetess and sibyl, making her give oracular
utterances about the health and circumstances of strangers with win mi
he placed her _en rapport_.
"One day I found, among the spectators, an old doctor, a celebrated
man, who was well known as the most strenuous and formidable opponent
of, and sceptic concerning, the curative effects of mesmerism. Before
his arrival the lady, in her magnetic sleep, had said that it would
last longer this time than usual, and that she would not awake for
fully two hours. Soon after this she attained the highest stage of
clairvoyance, and began her mystic utterances. The mesmerist told us
that, in this highest grade, the subject was a wholly spiritual being,
had completely stripped off the body, and was utterly insensible to
physical pain. The old doctor thought this was an opportunity for
making a decisive experiment in the cause of science, for the
convincing of all the incredulous; and proposed that he should be
allowed to burn the sole of the lady's foot with a red-hot iron, and
see whether she would feel it or not. It seemed rather a terrible
experiment, but abundant means of cure were at hand; he had brought
them in his pocket, and a small iron for the purpose as well. These he
at once produced.
"The mesmerizer averred that, on awaking, the lady would not mind any
slight inconvenience which she might thus suffer in the cause of
science, and ordered a chafing-dish to be brought. It came, and the
doctor placed his iron in it to be heated. Just then the lady was
seized with a sudden spasm, heaved a deep sigh, awoke, and complained
of feeling uncomfortable. The old doctor cast a piercing glance at her,
unceremoniously cooled his iron in some mesmerized water which happened
to be on the table, put it in his pocket, took his hat and stick, and
left the house. The scales fell from my eyes. I hastened to take my
departure also, indignant at the vile deception which this fine lady
was practising on her mesmerizer, and on us all.
"As a matter of course, neither the mesmerizer nor the devotees--who
looked upon their visits as a species of mystic divine service--were in
the slightest degree enlightened by what had occurred. It is equally a
matter of course that I, for my part, was convinced that everything in
the shape of mesmerism was the merest chimeric superstition, and would
listen to nothing more on the subject.
"My destiny took me to B----. There, also, much was being said about
mesmerism, but there was no mention of any experiments on it going on.
It was said that a much esteemed old doctor, the director of the
admirably ordered lunatic asylum there--like the one in the Residenz
who, in a horrible manner, carried anti-somnambulistic irons about in
his pockets--had declared himself decidedly against mesmerism as a
cure, and strictly forbidden the doctors under his orders to practise
it.
"My surprise was all the greater, therefore, to learn, after a time,
that this very doctor himself was employing mesmerism, though quite
secretly, in the lunatic asylum.
"When I had made his acquaintance, I tried to bring him on to the
subject of mesmerism. He avoided it: but at last, as I persisted in
talking of this wondrous science, and showed that I had a certain
amount of practical knowledge on the subject, he asked what was being
done at the Residenz in the direction of curative mesmerism. I told
him, without ceremony, the story of the lady who came back so suddenly
from the realms of celestial ecstasies to this sublunary world at the
idea of being slightly burned. 'That is just it! that is just it!' he
cried, whilst his eyes flashed lightnings; and he at once changed the
subject. At last, when I had gained more of his confidence, he spoke
out his mind concerning mesmerism, to the effect that he was convinced,
from personal experience, of the existence of this mysterious natural
power, and of its beneficial effects in particular cases, but
considered the calling into action of this power to be the most
dangerous experiment possible, which should only be permitted to
doctors, in the most absolute serenity of their minds, and above any
sort of passionate enthusiasm; that there was nothing in which there
was a greater possibility of self-deception, or in which self-deception
was easier; and that he considered no experiment satisfactory in which
the person operated on had previously heard much of the marvels of
mesmerism, and possessed sufficient intelligence and education to
understand what it was all about. He considered that the charm of
penetrating into a higher spirit-world was, for poetic temperaments, or
those naturally 'exalted,' too alluring not to give rise, taken in
connection with an eager desire to attain that condition, to illusory
feelings of every kind. Moreover, he said that the magnetizer's dream
of controlling the spiritual principle of another was a source of
deception, where he lends himself wholly to the fancies of exciteable
people, instead of throwing the most prosaic cold water over them, and
thus keeping them in check as by bit and bridle. At the same time he
would not deny that he made use of the curative powers of mesmerism
himself, in his asylum, although he thought that the mode in which,
from pure conviction, he allowed it to be applied, by doctors
carefully selected under his own strict superintendence, obviated all
risk of abuse, and, on the contrary, produced beneficial effects on the
patients, as well as resulting increase of knowledge respecting this
most mysterious of all curative agents. Although it was a breach of all
regulations, he said he was willing, provided that I would promise him
the strictest secrecy, so as to keep the curious at bay, to allow me to
be present at a mesmeric cure, if a case of the kind should occur.
"Chance soon brought a very remarkable case of the kind under my
observation, of which the circumstances are as follow:
"In a certain village about twenty miles from B---- the local medical
man met with a country labourer's daughter, of about sixteen, whose
condition her parents bewailed with bitter tears. They said their
daughter could neither be said to be ill nor well. She suffered from no
pain or illness, she ate and drank, slept--often for a whole day at a
time--and yet she seemed to be wasting away, and getting weaker and
feebler daily, so that she had been able to do no work for a long time
past. The doctor convinced himself that some deep-seated affection of
the nervous system was the root of the evil, and that mesmerism was
clearly indicated as the remedy. He told the parents that it was
impossible that their daughter could be cured there in the village, but
that she could be put to rights completely if they would send her to
the hospital in B----, where she would have the best of advice and
treatment, and be given the necessary medicine without having to pay a
farthing. After a hard struggle the parents did as they were advised.
"Before the mesmeric cure had been commenced I went with my friend to
the hospital, and saw the patient. I found the girl in a lofty,
well-lighted room, fitted up in the most careful manner with all
imaginable comforts and conveniences. She was of very delicate build
for her station in life, and her refined-looking face was almost to be
called beautiful, had it not been for the dull, vacant eyes, the deadly
pallor, the colourless lips. Probably her malady had impaired, for the
time, her mental powers, but she seemed to be very limited in
intelligence, appeared to have a good deal of difficulty in
understanding questions put to her, and answered them in the broad,
abominable, unintelligible jargon which the country people speak in her
part of the world. The director had selected as her mesmerizer a young,
robust medical student whose face expressed ingenuousness and
kindliness, and to whom he had ascertained that the girl had no
dislike. The process began. There was no question in this case of
visits by the curious, astonishing feats, or the like. Besides the
mesmerizer, no one was present except the director (who watched the
process with the minutest attention, and carefully observed the most
trifling incidents) and me. At first the girl seemed but very slightly
susceptible, but ere long she progressed rapidly from grade to grade,
until in three weeks' time she reached the stage of true clairvoyance.
Let me pass over the various wonderful phenomena which presented
themselves in her several stages. It is sufficient if I assure you that
here, where there was no possibility whatever of the smallest
deception, I was convinced to the depths of my soul of the real
occurrence of that state which mesmerists describe as the highest form
of clairvoyance. In this stage, as Kluge says, the union with the
mesmerizer is so absolute and complete that the subject not only knows
instantly when the mesmerizer's thoughts are withdrawn from him (or
her), but reads the thoughts which are in the mesmerizer's mind with
the utmost minuteness. On the other hand, the clairvoyant is completely
under the control of the mesmerizer's will, and can only think, speak,
and act by means of, and through, the mesmerizer's psychical principle.
This is exactly the condition in which this peasant girl was.
"I am unwilling to weary you with all that happened as between the
mesmerizer and patient in this condition; I shall merely mention one
circumstance--to my mind the most convincing of all. While she was in
this condition, the girl spoke the pure, educated dialect of her
mesmerizer, and in her answers to his questions--often given with a
most charming smile--she expressed herself in the choice and refined
language of a person of intelligence and education; in fact, exactly as
her mesmerizer was in the habit of expressing himself; and as she did
so, her lips and cheeks bloomed into rosy colours, and her features and
expression were ennobled in the most striking manner.
"I could not but be amazed. But this complete absence of individual
will in the patient, this absolute surrender of her personality, this
objectionable dependence upon the spiritual principle of another--this
existence, in fact, conditioned solely by another's spiritual
principle--filled me with horror and awe. Nay, I could not but feel the
deepest and most heartrending pity for the poor thing, even after I was
obliged to see and admit that the mesmerism was doing the patient a
most wonderful amount of good, so that she bloomed forth into the
finest and most robust health, and thanked her mesmerizer, the
director--and even me--for all the benefit she had derived, saying all
this in a broader and more unintelligible jargon than ever. The
director seemed to observe my feeling, and to share it. We never came
to any explanation about it; probably for the best of reasons. Never
since then have I been able to persuade myself to witness any more
mesmeric cures. I had no wish to see any experiments besides the one in
question, which was so perfect in all its conditions as to remove all
doubts of the wondrous power of mesmerism. At the same time, it had
brought me to the brink of an abyss into which it was impossible to
peer without profound alarm.
"From all which it results that I am entirely of Lothair's opinion."
"And," said Ottmar, "as I add that I am entirely of yours, it is clear
that we are all of one mind on this mysterious subject. No doubt any
clever doctor who is an advocate for mesmerism would refute all
our arguments in a moment, and soundly rebuke us for setting our
crude laymen's opinions up in opposition to convictions resulting
from careful experiments and extensive experience. Do not let us
forget, neither, that we ought not to be altogether unfavourably
disposed towards mesmerism, since, in our Serapiontic essays it may
frequently find its application as a most efficient lever for bringing
little-understood spiritual powers into play. Even you, Lothair, have
made use of this lever not seldom. In your very 'Nutcracker,' that most
edifying story, Marie is sometimes a little 'sonnambule.' But, ah! how
far we have wandered away from the subject of Vincent!"
"The transition was easy enough," said Lothair. "The path was traced
all ready. If Vincent joins our Brotherhood, there is sure to be much
dabbling in mysteries, for his head is full of them. However, Cyprian
here has not been attending to what we have been saying for several
minutes past; he has been turning over the leaves of a manuscript which
he took from his pocket. He ought now to have an opportunity of
disburdening his mind."
"The truth is," said Cyprian, "that your discussion on mesmerism
seemed, to me, tedious and wearisome; and, if you like, I will read you
a Serapiontic tale which was suggested to me by Wagenseil's 'Chronicles
of Nürnberg.' Remember, that my object was not to write a critical,
antiquarian treatise on the celebrated Contest on the Wartburg; I have
merely, according to my wont, related the circumstances just as they
arose before my mental vision."
He read:--
"'THE SINGERS' CONTEST.
"'At the season when spring and winter are bidding each other
farewell--on the night of the Equinox--a reader sat in a lonely chamber
with Johann Christoph Wagenseil's work on the glorious craft of the
Master Singers open before him. The storm, raging and roaring without,
was clearing up the fields, dashing the heavy rain-drops against the
windows, and whistling and howling the winter's wild adieu through the
chimneys of the houses; whilst the beams of the full moon were dancing
and playing like pallid spectres up and down on the wall. But the
reader took no note of all this. He closed the book, and gazed, deep in
thought, into the fire which was crackling on the hearth, given over
wholly to contemplation of the magic forms of long-past times, which
his book had evoked for him. It was as if some invisible being laid
down veil after veil upon his head, so that the objects around him
floated far away into thicker and thicker mists. The raging of the
storm and the crackling of the fire turned to gentle, harmonious
murmuring whispers, and a voice within him said,
"'"This is the dream, whose wings murmur so softly up and down, as it
lays itself on man's breast like a loving child, awaking with a sweet
kiss the inner sight--so that it beholds the beauteous forms of a
higher life, which is all splendour and glory."
"'A dazzling radiance burst forth like lightning-flash, and the veiled
dreamer opened his eyes. But no veil--no mist cloud--now obscured his
sight. He was lying on beds of flowers in the twilight dimness of a
thick, beautiful forest. The brooks were murmuring, the thickets
rustling, like the secret talk of lovers; and between whiles a
nightingale complained in sweetest pain. The morning breeze awoke,
and--rolling the clouds away--made straight the pathway of the glorious
sunshine; and soon the sunlight gleamed upon all the green, green
leaves, waking the sleeping birds, which fluttered from spray to spray,
singing their joyous strains. Then came sounding from afar the tones of
the merry horn. The deer sprang up from their lairs, and the harts and
the roes peered out--shyly, with bright, wise eyes--through the leafy
thickets, at him who lay on the flowers, and then dashed back in alarm
into their coverts again. The horns were silent; but now the chords of
harps were heard, and tones of voices, making a music so sweet, that it
seemed to come straight from Heaven. Nearer and nearer approached
the sound of these beautiful strains, and hunters armed with their
boar-spears, with bright horns slung over their shoulders, rode forth
from the forest shades. On a splendid cream-coloured charger rode
onward a stately lord, dressed in old German garb, robed in a prince's
mantle. By his side on a graceful palfrey, a lady of dazzling beauty,
richly attired, rode along. After them came six cavaliers, riding on
beautiful horses, each of a different colour; their marked and
expressive faces spake of a long vanished time. They had laid their
bridle reins over their horses' necks, and were playing on lutes and
harps, and singing in clear-toned voices. Their horses, trained to the
music, went prancing in time to the strains, after the royal pair along
the woodland way. When the singing ceased for a time, the hunters
sounded their horns, and the horses whinnied and neighed as if in
gladness of heart. Pages and servitors richly attired brought up the
rear of the stately procession, which wended its way along into the
depths of the woods.
"'He who had been sunk in amaze at this wondrous sight, rose from his
flowery couch, and cried enraptured,
"'"Oh, Ruler of the Universe! have those grand old days arisen again
from the grave? What were these glorious forms?"
"'A deep voice spoke behind him: "Did you not recognize the men, whom
you have had so vividly present to your mind?"
"'He looked round, and saw a grave and stately man in a dark
full-bottomed wig, dressed all in black, in the fashion of about the
year 1680; and he recognized the learned old Professor Johann Christoph
Wagenseil, who went on to speak as follows:
"'"You need have had no difficulty in seeing that the stately lord in
the prince's mantle, was the doughty Landgrave Hermann of Thuringia. By
his side rode the star of his court, Countess Mathilda, the youthful
widow of Count Cuno of Falkenstein, who died advanced in years. The six
who rode after them, singing to lutes and harps, were the six great
masters of song, whom the Landgrave--heart and soul devoted to the
glorious singer's craft--has assembled at his Court. They are now
engaged in the chase; but when that is over, they will meet in a
beautiful meadow in the heart of the forest, and hold a singing
contest. Thither let us repair, that we may be present when the hunt is
over."
"'Wherefore they went along; while the distant rocks and the woods
re-echoed the notes of the horns, the cries of the hounds, and the
shouts of the hunters. All turned out as Professor Wagenseil had
desired. Scarcely had they come to the gold-green glittering meadow,
when the Landgrave, the Countess, and the six masters came slowly up
from the distance.
"'"Good friend!" said Wagenseil, "I shall now point out to you each of
the masters, and call him by his name. You see the one who looks about
him so joyfully, and, holding his chestnut horse well in hand, comes
caracoling up so bravely? The Landgrave nods to him--he gives a happy
smile--that is the cheerful, vigorous Walther of the Vogelweid. He with
the broad shoulders and the strong, curly beard, with knightly blazon
on his shield--riding quietly forward on the piebald--is Reinhard of
Zweckhstein. Now, notice him there riding away from us into the woods
on a small-sized dapple grey. He gazes thoughtfully before him, and
smiles as if fair forms and pictures were rising before him out of the
ground; that is the great Professor Heinrich Schreiber. He is probably
far away in spirit, and thinks not of the meadow or of the singers'
contest. For see how he pushes his way down the narrow woodland path,
while the branches above him strike his head. There goes Johannes
Bitterolff after him, that fine-looking man on the sorrel, with the
short reddish beard. He calls to the professor, who wakes up from his
reverie, and they come riding back together. But what is this wild
commotion there amongst the trees; Can storm squalls be passing along
down so low in the thickets? This is indeed a wild rider, spurring his
horse till he bounds and rears, foaming and fretting. See the pale
handsome lad; how his eyes flame, and the muscles of his face are drawn
with pain--as if some invisible being were sitting behind him and
torturing him--it is Heinrich of Ofterdingen. What can have changed him
thus? He used to ride quietly on, joining with beautiful tones in the
songs of the other masters. Oh look, now, at this grand cavalier on the
white Arab! He is dismounting, and now he swings his bridle reins over
his arm, and, with genuine knightly courtesy, holds his hand out to
Countess Mathilda to help her from her saddle. See the grace with which
he stands, his bright blue eyes beaming on the lady. It is Wolfframb of
Eschinbach. But they are taking their places, and the contest is going
to begin."
"'Each of the masters in turn now sung a magnificent song. It was easy
to see that they strove to surpass each other. But though none of them
did altogether surpass the others--difficult as it was to decide which
of them had sung the best--yet the Lady Mathilda bent to Wolfframb of
Eschinbach with the garland, which she held in her hand, as the prize.
But Heinrich of Ofterdingen sprang up from his seat, with a gleam of
wild fire sparkling in his dark eyes; and as he stepped impetuously
forward to the centre of the meadow, a gust of wind carried away his
barret-cap, and the hair streamed up in spikes on his deadly pale
forehead.
"'"Stay! stay!" he cried, "the prize has not been won! my song, my song
has still to be heard; and then let the Landgrave say which of us wins
the garland."
"'"With this there came to his hand--one scarce could tell how or
whence--a lute of wonderful form, almost like some strange unearthly
creature turned to wood. This lute he began to play and strike with
such power, that all the distant woodlands trembled and shook to its
tones. Then he sang to its chords in a voice of grandeur and power, in
praise of a stranger prince, a mightier prince than all, whom every
master must hail and lowly worship, and laud, on pain of shame and
dismay, of speedy ruin and end. Often marvellous tones--sneering and
harsh, and wild--seemed to sound from the lute, as he was singing this
strain.
"'The Landgrave's glances were angry as this wild singer sang. But the
other masters sang all together, joining their voices in answer.
Heinrich's wonderful song was well-nigh lost in their singing. So that
he swept his strings with more and more passionate swell, till they
strained and shivered, and broke, uttering a cry as of pain. Then, in
place of the lute, lo! a sudden, dark horrible form was seen to stand
at his side; it grasped him with horrible talons, and rose with him up
to the air. The songs of the masters ceased, and died away in faint
echoes. Black clouds sunk down over forest and meadow, shrouding the
scene in night. Then a star arose, shining in soft, gentle radiance,
and passed along upon its heavenly way. And the masters floated after
this star, resting on shining clouds, singing, and softly touching
their strings. A glimmering radiance trembled up from the grass, the
woodland voices awoke from their deep slumber, and toned forth, and
joined in the masters' songs.
"'And now you perceive, dear reader, that he who dreamed this dream is
he who is about to lead you amongst these masters, to whose
acquaintance Professor Johann Christian Wagenseil has introduced him.
"'Often, when we see strange forms moving in the dimness of distance,
our hearts beat with a painful anxiety to know what or whom they may
be, and what they are doing. They come nearer and nearer; we can make
out the colour of their dress, and see their faces. We hear their
voices, although the words cannot be distinguished. But they dip down
into the blue haze of some valley, and we can scarcely wait till they
come up again and reach us, so eager are we to see them and talk with
them, and know what those who seemed so wondrous in the distance may
turn out to be when close at hand. May the dream above narrated give
rise to similar feelings in you, dear reader, and may you consider that
the narrator is doing you no unfriendly service in at once conducting
you to the famous Wartburg, and the Court of Landgrave Hermann of
Thuringia.
"'THE MASTER SINGERS AT THE WARTBURG.
"'It was about the year 1208, that the noble Landgrave of Thuringia, a
zealous lover and active patron of the gracious singers-craft, had
gathered six mighty masters of song together at his Court. These were
Wolfframb of Eschinbach, Walther of the Vogelweid, Reinhardt of
Zweckhstein, Heinrich Schreiber, Johannes Bitterolff--all of knightly
rank--and Heinrich of Ofterdingen, burgher of Eisenach. The masters
dwelt together in heartfelt amity and harmony, as priests of one and
the same church, all their efforts being directed to maintaining the
gift of song--the most precious wherewith the Lord hath blessed
mankind--in full flower and in high honour. Each of them had a "manner"
of his own, as it was called, a "style" as we should more probably term
it; but just as each note of a harmony differs from all the rest, and
yet they all unite in forming the beautiful chord, so the various
"modes" or "styles" of these masters harmonized completely together,
and seemed but diverse rays of the same star of love. Hence neither of
them thought that his own "manner" was the best, but held those of the
others in high esteem, and knew that his own "mode" would not sound so
beautiful but for the others; just as any note of a chord does not
acquire its full beauty, significance, and power until the others
belonging to it awake and come lovingly to greet it.
"'Whilst the songs of Walther of the Vogelweid (a lord of broad acres)
were noble and elegantly turned, yet full of exuberant gladness,
Reinhardt sung in curt and knightly phrases, employing words and forms
of force and might; whilst Heinrich Schreiber was learned and profound,
Johannes Bitterolff was full of glitter, and rich in ingenious similes
and quaint conceits. Heinrich of Ofterdingen's songs went straight to
the depths of the soul. Wasted and worn himself by pain and longing, he
knew how to stir the deepest sorrow in the hearts of men; but often
there rang through his music harsh accents coming from the torn and
wounded breast, where bitter scorn and sorrow had taken their abode,
stinging and gnawing like venomous insects. It was a mystery unknown to
all why Heinrich had fallen into this condition. Wolfframb of
Eschinbach was born in Switzerland, his songs, breathing of grace and
peaceful clearness, were like the pure blue skies of his beautiful
native land, his "manner" had in it the sounds of the cattle-bells, and
of herdsmen playing their reeden pipes; but yet the wild waterfalls
lifted their voices, and the thunder among the mountains. As he sang,
those who listened were borne floating along with him, on the
glittering wavelets of some beautiful stream, now gliding gently, now
battling with the storm-driven surges; anon, the storm over, and the
danger past, steering in gladness to the wished-for haven.
Notwithstanding his youth, Wolfframb of Eschinbach was the most
experienced of the masters assembled at the Landgrave's Court. He had
been wholly devoted to the singer's craft from his early childhood,
and, as soon as he had grown to be a lad, he had travelled in quest of
instruction through many countries, till he met with the great master
whose name was Friedebrand. This master taught him faithfully in his
art, and gave him many master poems in manuscript, which sent light
into his inner spirit, enabling him to see and distinguish all that was
formless and dim before. More especially at Siegebrunnen, in Scotland,
Master Friedebrand gave him certain books from which he learned the
histories which he rendered into German song. They related chiefly to
Gamurret and his son Parcival, to the Markgrave Wilhelm of Narben and
his doughty Rennewart. These poems another master singer, Ulrich of
Tuerkheim, afterwards translated into more modern German verse, and
enlarged into a thick book at the request of lords and ladies who could
not rightly understand Eschinbach's poetry. Thus Wolfframb was renowned
far and wide for the excellence of his art, and obtained the favour of
many princes and great lords. He visited many courts, and received the
richest rewards for his splendid mastership, till at length the
enlightened Landgrave Hermann of Thuringia, having heard of his fame
from all quarters, invited him to his Court.
"'Not only his greatness in his art, but his sweet disposition and his
modesty, very shortly gained him the Landgrave's fullest favour and
affection, and perhaps Heinrich of Ofterdingen, who had formerly
enjoyed the full sunshine of the prince's favour had, in consequence,
to step somewhat backwards into the shade; but notwithstanding, none of
the masters clung to Wolfframb with such sincerity of affection as
Heinrich of Ofterdingen. Wolfframb returned it from the depth of his
soul; and thus they two stood united in the closest friendship, while
the other masters formed a beautiful shining garland around them.
"'HEINRICH OF OFTERDINGEN's SECRET.
"'Ofterdingen's wild and distracted condition increased upon him every
day; gloomier and more restless grew his glance, paler and paler his
cheek. Whilst the other masters, after singing the most sublime themes
from holy writ, raised their glad voices in praise of fair ladies, and
of their valiant prince, Ofterdingen's songs bewailed the immeasurable
pain of earthly existence, and were often like the wailing cry of one
who is mortally hurt, and longs in vain for death to deliver him. All
believed him to be suffering from hopeless love; but none could succeed
in wringing his secret from him. The Landgrave, who was devoted to him
heart and soul, tried once, when they chanced to be alone together, to
find out the cause of his trouble; he plighted his princely word that
he would spare no effort in his power to avert any misfortune
threatening him should that be the cause; or, by furthering any desire
which might at that time seem hopeless, convert his bitter sufferings
into joy and hope; but the Landgrave succeeded no better than the
others in inducing young Heinrich to open his heart.
"'"Alas, my lord!" he said, while the hot tears came to his eyes, "I
cannot myself tell what hellish monster has clutched me with fiery
talons, and is holding me suspended halfway between heaven and earth. I
belong no more to this world; and I thirst in vain for the joys up in
the heaven above me. The heathen poets have told of the desolate shades
of the dead, who do not belong to Elysium or to Orcus; they flit and
wander to and fro on Acheron's banks, and the darksome air, where no
star of hope can ever shine, resounds with their cries of sorrow; and
the terrible wailings of their inexpressible pain, their weeping, their
prayers are vain; the inexorable ferryman drives them away when they
try to enter the mysterious barge, and this condition of theirs--this
frightful perdition--is mine."
"'Soon after Heinrich had thus spoken with the Landgrave, he left the
Wartburg in a state of real bodily sickness, and betook himself to
Eisenach. The masters sorrowed that so fair a flower was lost from
their garland, faded before its time, as if by the blight of some
poisonous blast; but Wolfframb of Eschinbach by no means gave up all
hope--rather he thought that, now that Ofterdingen's mental trouble had
turned to a bodily sickness, recovery might be near at hand, for it is
not seldom the case that the mind falls sick, presaging bodily pain,
and it might be so with Ofterdingen, whom he determined to go and
faithfully comfort and tend.
"'So Wolfframb went at once to Eisenach, and when he went in to
Ofterdingen, he found him stretched on his couch, deathly pale, with
half-closed eyes; his lute was hung on the wall covered thickly with
dust, and many of its strings were broken. When he saw his friend, he
raised himself a little, and stretched out his hand to him with a
melancholy smile. Wolfframb having taken a seat beside him, and
delivered to him the hearty greetings of the Landgrave, and of the
other masters; and spoken many other kindly words--Heinrich, in the
languid voice of a sick man said, "Much that is strange has happened to
me; doubtless I have borne myself as one bereft of his senses. Well
might you all believe that some secret, penned up within my breast, was
what was driving me so wildly hither and thither; but alas, my wretched
state was a mystery even to myself; a raging torture was eating at my
heart, but its cause I could not discover. All that I did seemed to me
wretched and worthless. The songs which I held so high before, sounded
toneless and weak, unworthy the feeblest learner; and yet, befooled by
a vain presumption, I burned to outvie you all. A bliss unknown, the
highest joy of heaven, shone far above me like a golden star. To it
must I raise myself, or perish miserably. I raised my eyes, I stretched
my longing arms; but ice-cold wings waved a chill to heart and soul,
and a voice said 'What avails thy hope and longing? Is not thine eye
blinded? Is not thy power lost? Thou canst not endure the ray of thy
hope; thou canst not grasp and hold thy heavenly bliss.' But now, now
my secret is plain, even to myself. It is true it gives me my death,
but death in the highest of heavenly bliss. Sick and feeble I lay on my
bed. It was sometime deep in the night, and the fever-wanderings, which
had been driving me hither and thither for so long, left me at once. I
felt myself at peace; and a gentle beneficent warmth went spreading
through my frame. I seemed to be floating away through the deeps of
heaven, borne upon dark clouds. Then a glittering levin-bolt seemed to
come cleaving through the gloom, and I cried out--
"'"'Mathilda! Mathilda!'
"'"Upon this I awoke. The dream was gone, my heart was throbbing with a
strange sweet pain, and with a nameless joy I was conscious that I had
cried 'Mathilda,' and I gave way to fear--for I thought that the woods
and the meadows, and all the hills and the caves would re-echo that
beauteous name--and that thousands of voices would tell her glorious
self how deep and true and tender, even to the death, my adoration must
always be, and that she is the marvellous star whose beams, streaming
into my heart, awake those destroying pains of hopeless longing; and
that now those passionate flames have burst into blazing might, that
all my soul is athirst, and dies for her peerless beauty!
"'"You know all my secret now, Wolfframb; bury it deep in your breast.
You see that I am peaceful and happy, and you believe me when I tell
you that I would rather die than render myself despicable in your
eyes--in the eyes of all. But to you--to you, whom Mathilda loves--I
felt that I must tell all. As soon as I can rise from this couch, I
shall wander away into some foreign land, with death in my heart.
Should you hear that I am no more, you may tell Mathilda that I----"
"But Heinrich could speak no further. He sank back upon his couch, and
turned his face to the wall. His bitter sobs betrayed the struggle
within him.
"'Wolfframb was greatly startled and surprised at that which Heinrich
had disclosed to him. He sat with his eyes fixed on the ground, and
considered how his friend might be rescued from the dominion of this
mad and foolish passion, which must infallibly lead him to his
destruction.
"'He tried to speak words of comfort, and even to induce Heinrich to go
back to the Wartburg, and return--with hope in his heart--into the
sunshine which Mathilda shed around her. He even said that it was only
by virtue of his songs that he himself had found favour in her eyes,
and that Ofterdingen might well reckon upon equal good fortune. But
poor Heinrich gazed at him sadly, and said:
"'"You will never see me, I think, at the Wartburg any more. Would you
have me cast myself into the flames? I shall die a happier death afar
from her--the sweet death of longing."
"'Wolfframb departed, leaving Heinrich in Eisenach.
"'WHAT HAPPENED FURTHER TO HEINRICH OF OFTERDINGEN.
"'It sometimes comes to pass that the love-pain in our hearts, which at
first threatened to tear them asunder, grows habitual after a time, so
that we even come to cherish it with care; and the sharp cries of
anguish which the nameless torture at first made us utter, turn to
melodious plaints of gentle sorrow, which tone back like sweet echoes
into our souls, laying themselves, like balm, on our bleeding wounds.
"'And thus it was with Heinrich of Ofterdingen. His love was as warm
and longing as ever, but he looked no more into the black, hopeless
abyss. He lifted his eyes to the shimmering clouds of spring, and then
it seemed to him as if his beloved was looking down at him with her
beautiful eyes, inspiring him with the most glorious songs he had ever
sung. He took his lute down from the wall, strung it with fresh
strings, and went forth into the fair spring weather which had just
commenced. Then he felt powerfully impelled towards the region of the
Wartburg; and when he saw the towers of the castle shining in the
distance, and reflected that he would never see Mathilda more--that his
life would never be anything but a hopeless longing; that Wolfframb had
won the peerless lady by the power of song--all his lovely visions of
hope sank away into gloomy night, and the deathly pangs of despair and
jealousy pierced his heart. Then he fled, as if pursued by evil
spirits, back to his lonely chamber, and there he was able to sing
songs which brought him delicious dreams, and, in them, the Beloved
herself.
"'For a long time he had succeeded in avoiding the sight of the towers
of the Wartburg; but one day he got into the forest--he scarce could
tell how--the forest which lies in front of the Wartburg, on going out
of which one has the castle close before his sight. He had come to a
part of the woods where strangely-shaped crags rise up, covered with
many-tinted mosses, surrounded by thick copses and ugly, stunted,
prickly underwood. With some difficulty he clambered halfway up these
rocks, so that, through a cleft, he could see the towers of the
Wartburg rising in the distance. There he sat himself down, and,
vanquishing the pain of his gloomy fancies, lost himself in dreams of
the sweetest hope.
"'The sun had been some time set, and from out the gloomy clouds which
had come down and spread upon the hill, the moon rose, red and fiery.
The night wind began to sigh through the lofty trees, and, touched by
its icy breath, the thicket shuddered and shivered like one in the
chills of fever. The night birds rose screaming from the rocks, and
began their wavering flight. The woodland streams rushed louder--the
distant waterfalls lifted their voices. But as the moon begun to shine
more brightly through the trees, the tones of distant singing came
faintly over the valley. Heinrich rose. He thought how the masters on
the Wartburg were now beginning their pious evening hymns. He saw
Mathilda, as she retired, casting looks of affection at Wolfframb--whom
she loved--with a heart brimming over with fondness and longing.
Heinrich took his lute and begun a song such as perhaps he had never
sung before. The night wind paused; the thickets and trees kept
silence; the tones went gleaming through the woodland shadows as if
they were part of the moonlight. But as this song was dying away in
sighs of bitter sorrow, a sudden burst of shrill, piercing laughter
rang out behind him. He turned quickly round, startled, and saw a tall
dark form, which, ere he could collect his thoughts, began to speak in
a disagreeable, sneering tone:
"'"Aha! I have been searching about here for a considerable time to see
who might be singing so beautifully at this hour of the night. So it is
you, is it, Heinrich of Ofterdingen? Ha! I might have known that, for
you are certainly by far the poorest (which is not saying little) of
all the 'masters,' as folks call them, up on the Wartburg there; and
that silly song, without either meaning or melody, could only have come
from your mouth."
"'Half still alarmed, half glowing in anger, Heinrich cried:
"'"And who may you be, who know me and think you can attack me here
with contumely and scorn?" And he laid his hand on his sword. But the
dark stranger gave another of his screaming laughs, and, as he did, a
ray of moonlight fell upon his deathly pale face, so that Ofterdingen
could see, with much distinctness, the wild-gleaming eyes, the sunken
cheeks, the pointed, reddish beard, the mouth with its fixed sneering
smile, and the barret-cap with its black feather.
"'"Heyday, young sir!" said the stranger; "are you going to come at me
with lethal weapons because I criticise your songs? I know you singers
do not like anything but praise, and expect to receive it for
everything that drops from your renowned lips, though there be nothing
good about it. But just because that is not my way, and because I tell
you candidly that instead of being a master you are but a mediocre
scholar and learner of the noble singer's craft, you ought to see that
I am your true friend, and mean you kindly."
"'"How," said Ofterdingen, who felt a secret shudder run through him;
"how can you, whom I do not remember to have seen before, be my friend
and mean me kindly?"
"'Without answering this question the stranger went on to say:
"'"This is a charming spot, and the night is delightful. I will sit
down beside you in the friendly light of the moon; you are not going
back to Eisenach just yet, so we can have a little chat together. Pay
attention to what I am going to tell you, it may prove instructive."
"'With this the stranger sat down on the large mossy rock, close beside
Ofterdingen. The latter struggled with the strangest feelings. With all
his fearlessness he could not, in the loneliness of the night, and in
that desert place, overcome the profound shuddering which the
stranger's voice and manner awakened in him. He felt as if he ought to
throw him down the steep precipice into the woodland stream which
roared beneath. Then, again, he felt as if paralyzed in all his
members.
"'Meanwhile the stranger came and sat quite close to Ofterdingen and
spoke very softly, almost whispering in his ear.
"'"I have just come from the Wartburg," he said, "where I have been
listening to the poor, homely, unskilled, schoolboy-like 'singing,' as
it is by courtesy styled, of the so-called 'masters' up there. But the
Countess Mathilda is peerless; she is more perfect and charming than
any other lady on earth!"
"'"Mathilda!" Ofterdingen cried in a tone of the deepest sorrow.
"'"Hoho, young sir," cried the stranger; "it is there where the shoe
pinches, is it? However, for the present we have lofty matters to
discuss; we have to deal with the noble craft of song. I have no doubt
that you people up there mean your best with those songs of yours, and
that they all come to you as smoothly and naturally as possible. But of
the real, true, profound singer-craft not one of you has the most
distant idea. I shall just give you one or two elementary notions on
the subject, and then you will see that, on the path on which you are
at present, you will never reach the goal you are aiming at."
"'The dark stranger now began to speak of the true craft of song in
very extraordinary language, which itself almost sounded like strange
songs hitherto unheard. And as he spoke image after image arose in
Heinrich's mind, and then vanished again as if borne away by some
storm-wind. A new world seemed to be opening upon him, seething with
voluptuous shapes. Each word of the stranger's kindled lightning gleams
which flashed forth for an instant and then went out again. The full
moon was now high above the trees. Heinrich and the stranger were both
sitting in her full radiance, and the former now noticed that the face
of the stranger was far from being as horrible as it had appeared at
first. There was certainly a strange fire sparkling in his eyes, but
Heinrich fancied that a pleasing smile played about his lips, and the
great, hawk-like nose and the lofty brow gave the face an expression of
immense power and strength.
"'"I cannot express to you," said Heinrich, "the strangeness of the
effect which your words produce upon me. I seem to be only now, for the
first time in my life, beginning to form some slight notion what
singing really means--as if all that I have done hitherto, under the
impression that it was singing, was utterly poor and miserable--and
that the true singer's craft was only beginning to dawn upon me. You
must certainly yourself be a mighty master of song. Perhaps you will
favour me so far as to take me as your most zealous pupil. I most
earnestly beg that you will do so."
"'The stranger gave another of his disagreeable laughs. He rose from
his seat and stood before Heinrich, of such giant stature, and with a
face so altered, that Heinrich felt the same shudder as when the
stranger had first appeared at his side. The latter said, in a voice of
such power that it re-echoed amongst the rocks:
"'"You think I am a mighty master of song, do you? Perhaps I am at
times, but the giving of lessons is a matter with which I can by no
means be troubled. I have good advice at the service of all who are
eager for knowledge, as you seem to be. Have you ever heard of the
great master Klingsohr, who is renowned for his mastery of the singer's
craft as well as in all other branches of knowledge? People say he is a
magician, and has dealings with one who is not everywhere in the best
of odour. But do not you be deceived. Things which people do not
understand, and cannot themselves manipulate, they think to be
supernatural, and pertaining either to Heaven or to Hell. Master
Klingsohr will lead you to your goal. His home is in Siebenbürgen; go
you to him there, and you will see how science and art have procured
for him, in lavish measure, all that his heart could desire--honours
and riches, and fair ladies' favour. Ay, my young sir, if Klingsohr
were here you would see how little the Lady Mathilda would trouble
herself about the gentle Wolfframb of Eschinbach, our sighing Swiss
herdsman."
"'"Do not dare to mention her name!" cried Heinrich. "Begone, and leave
me in peace; I shudder at your presence."
"'"Hoho!" laughed the stranger; "do not get out of temper, my little
friend; the cause of your shuddering is the chilliness of the night
breeze and the thinness of your doublet. You felt well and happy whilst
I was sitting near you, diffusing warmth through your frame. Shuddering
and terror! Nonsense! I have blood and fire at your command. As for the
Lady Mathilda, what I tell you is that her favour may be gained by
means of the singer's gift, such as Master Klingsohr possesses. I began
by making light of your singing, to show you your own lack of skill.
But the fact that you begin to see your own shortcomings when I give
you some inklings of the true craft is sufficient to prove that you are
possessed of good dispositions. Who knows? You may be destined to tread
in Master Klingsohr's footsteps, and then you may sue for the Lady
Mathilda's favour with some reasonable hope of success. So make
yourself ready; be off to Siebenbürgen. But stay; if you cannot start
off at once I will give you a little book which you shall study
diligently. It is a book written by Master Klingsohr, and it contains
not only the rules of the true singer's craft, but also one or two
admirable compositions of his own."
"'With this the stranger had produced a little book in a blood-red
cover, which glimmered and shone in the moonlight. He handed this book
to Heinrich, and, as soon as he had done so, he stepped back and
vanished amongst the underwood.
"'Heinrich fell into a profound sleep. When he awoke the sun was high in
the heavens, and, had it not been that the book was lying on his
breast, he would have looked upon his adventure with the stranger as
merely a vivid dream.
"'OF THE LADY MATHILDA. EVENTS ON THE WARTBURG.
"'Doubtless, dear reader, you have at some time or other found yourself
in some circle composed of fair ladies and talented men, which might be
likened to a fair garland of many-tinted flowers, vieing in colour and
perfume. But, like the exquisite tones of a music breathing over the
whole, and awaking joy and rapture in every breast, it was the special
charm of some one lady in particular, which, outshining the rest of the
circle, was the special determining cause of the perfection of harmony
pervading the whole. The other ladies seemed more lovely and
attractive, seen in the light of her beauty, joining in the music of
her voice. It made the men's hearts grow wider, and enabled them to
give play to the enthusiasm and inspiration which is shy to come to the
light at ordinary times, so that it streamed forth in words or music,
or in such form as the nature of the circumstances might suggest. And,
however this "queen" of the circle might endeavour, in the kindness and
simplicity of her thoughtful goodness and consideration for all, to
apportion her favour to each in equal measure, one still could see that
her glance singled out one youth in particular standing in silence near
her, whose eyes, moist with tears of soft emotion, betrayed the
blissfulness of the passion burning in his breast. Many might envy, but
none could hate this fortunate being; nay, those who were his friends
rather loved him the better for the sake of the love he felt.
"Thus it happened that, in the fair garland of ladies and poets at the
Court of Landgrave Hermann of Thuringia, the Countess Mathilda, widow
of Count Cuno of Falkenstein (dead at an advanced age), was the fairest
flower, surpassing the others in beauty and sweetness.
"'Wolfframb of Eschinbach, deeply moved by her loveliness and charm,
fell in love with her at first sight, and the other masters, inspired
by her beauty, celebrated her in many a tuneful lay. Reinhardt of
Zweckhstein called her the lady of his thoughts, for whom he was ready
to tilt in the tournay, or perish in the fray. Walther of the Vogelweid
burned with the most chivalrous passion for her, whilst Heinrich
Schreiber and Johannes Bitterolff outvied each other in praising her in
every variety of quaint and ingenious conceit. But Wolfframb's songs
came from the depths of a loving soul, and found their way to
Mathilda's heart like glittering, sharp-pointed arrows. The other
masters knew this well, but they felt that Wolfframb's good fortune and
happiness irradiated them all with a sunny shimmer, and gave even to
their songs a peculiar sweetness and power.
"The first dark shadow that fell upon Wolfframb's radiant life was cast
by Ofterdingen's unlucky secret, when he thought how all the other
masters loved him, although they, too, were deeply impressed by
Mathilda's beauty and grace. As it was only in Ofterdingen's mind that
hostile rancour was associated with affection, driving him away into
dreary and joyless solitude, he could not help feeling bitterly pained.
Often he thought Ofterdingen was only affected by a temporary madness
which would wear itself out. Then again he felt with much vividness
that he himself would not have been able to endure it if he had sued
for Mathilda's favour in vain. "And," he said to himself, "what better
claim to it have I? Am I in any way better than Ofterdingen? Am I wiser
or handsomer? Where is the difference between us? That which presses
him to earth is but the power of a hostile destiny, which might have
been mine just as it is his; and I, his faithful friend, pass
carelessly by on the other side, and never hold out a hand to help
him."
"'Such reflections brought him at last to the conviction that he must
go to Eisenach, and use his utmost efforts to induce Ofterdingen to
come back to the Wartburg; but when he arrived Heinrich was gone, no
one knew where. Sorrowfully Wolfframb returned to the Wartburg, and
told the Landgrave and the masters of Heinrich's disappearance. Then
for the first time it was seen how was their affection for him, in
spite of his disturbed condition, which was sometimes sullen even to
bitterness. They mourned for him as for one dead, and long did this
grief lie over all their songs like a gloomy veil, depriving them of
all their splendour and tone, till at length the image of the lost one
passed further and further away into the dimness of distance.
"'The spring had come again, and with it all the joy and happiness of
renewed life. On a pleasant place in the castle gardens, closed in by
beautiful flowers, the masters were assembled to greet the young leaves
and the buds and blossoms with festive songs. The Landgrave, with
Mathilda and other ladies, had taken their seats in a circle round
them, and Wolfframb of Eschinbach was about to begin a song, when a
young man, with a lute in his hand, came forward from amongst the
trees. With glad surprise they all recognized in him the long missing
Heinrich of Ofterdingen. The masters went to meet him with greetings of
the heartiest kindliness; but, without taking much notice of them, he
approached the Landgrave, to whom, and then to the Countess Mathilda,
he made a lowly reverence. He said he was completely cured of the
sickness which had been upon him, and begged, should there be any
reasons precluding him from being readmitted to the circle of the
masters, to be at least allowed to sing his compositions as well as the
others. But the Landgrave said that, though he had been away from among
them for a time, he was by no means withdrawn from the circle of the
masters, and he did not know why he should imagine that that would be
the case. He embraced him, and himself pointed out to him his former
place, between Walther of the Vogelweid and Wolfframb of Eschinbach. It
was soon apparent that Heinrich's looks and bearing were completely
changed. Instead of hanging his head as formerly, and creeping about
with eyes fixed on the ground, he now walked with a bold firm step,
lifting his head on high. His face was as pale as ever, but his glance
was firm and penetrating, instead of wavering and uncertain. On his
brow, instead of the old deep melancholy, sat a proud, gloomy gravity;
and a strange muscular play about his mouth and cheek at times
expressed a most uncanny kind of scorn. He deigned no word to the
masters, but sat down silent in his place. Whilst the others were
singing, he looked at the sky, moved about on his seat, counted on his
fingers, yawned--in short, gave every indication of tedium and
impatience. Wolfframb of Eschinbach sung in praise of the Landgrave,
and then alluded to the return of the dear friend so long absent,
describing it so thoroughly out of the depths of his heart that all
present were deeply affected. But Heinrich knitted his brows, and,
turning away from Wolfframb, took his lute, and struck upon it the most
wonderful and extraordinary chords. He advanced to the centre of the
circle, and began a song, of which the "manner," wholly unlike anything
that the others had sung, was so unprecedented, that every one was
struck with the profoundest amazement, and at last consternation. It
was as if he was knocking, with tones of might, at the dark portal of
some strange mysterious realm, and conjuring forth the mystic secrets
of the unknown power therein dwelling. Then he invoked the stars, and
his lute's tones whispered soft and low, till one thought one heard the
harmonies of the ringing measures of the spheres. Then the chords grew
stronger, and rushed louder and louder; and glowing vapours seemed to
rise round the assemblage, whilst forms as of voluptuous love-passion
glowed in the opened Eden of the pleasures of sense. When he ended all
were sunk in the deepest silence, till a burst of applause broke
stormily forth; and Lady Mathilda rose quickly from her seat, went up
to him, and placed on his brow the garland which she had been holding
as the prize.
"'Ofterdingen's face grew red as fire. He fell on his knees, and
pressed her hands to his breast with rapture. As he rose, his
sparkling, penetrating glance fell upon the faithful Wolfframb, who was
coming up towards him, but turned away, as if suddenly constrained to
do so by some evil power.
"'There was but one who did not join in the enthusiastic applause, and
that was the Landgrave, who had become very grave and thoughtful during
Ofterdingen's singing, and could scarce find a word of praise for the
marvellous song. At this Ofterdingen seemed visibly annoyed.
"'When the twilight was almost merging into night, Wolfframb, who had
been seeking for Heinrich in vain, met with him in one of the garden
alleys. He hastened to him, and after warmly embracing him said:
"'"Well, dearest brother, and so you have become the greatest master of
song, as I suppose, that the world contains. Tell me how you have
accomplished what all we others, nay, yourself of old, had not the
faintest conception of? What spirit has stood at your command to teach
you the marvellous music of another world?"
"'"It is well," said Heinrich of Ofterdingen coldly, "that you see the
height to which I have risen above you, the so-called 'masters'; or
rather how I, and I only, have landed, and feel at home, in that realm
towards which you are all striving on mistaken paths. You will not
blame me, then, for thinking you all somewhat tedious and
uninteresting, as well as what you call your 'singing' into the
bargain."
"'"Then," said Wolfframb, "you now altogether despise us, whom of old
you held in high esteem--you will have nothing more in common with us.
All friendship, all liking have passed away from your heart, because
you are a greater master than we. Even me you hold no longer worthy of
your regard, because I may not be able to soar as high in my songs as
do you. Ah, Heinrich, if I were to tell you what I felt when I heard
you sing!"
"'"Pray let me hear," said Heinrich with a scornful laugh, "perhaps it
may teach me something of value."
"'"Heinrich," said Wolfframb, in a very earnest and serious tone, "it
is true your song was couched in a very extraordinary 'manner,' quite
unlike anything we had ever heard before, and the ideas soared high,
even beyond the clouds. But something within me said that such a song
could never come out of the pure human soul, but must be produced by
supernatural agency--as necromancers manure the earth of home with
magical substances, and it brings forth the strange plants of foreign
lands. You have become a great master of song Heinrich, and are
occupied in lofty matters; but do you still understand the sweet
greeting of the evening wind when you wander through the deep forest
shadows? Does your heart still throb with gladness at the rustling of
the branches, and the voices of the mountain streams? Do the flowers
still look up at you with the eyes of innocent children? Does the
nightingale's complaining still make your heart well nigh faint with
pain? Ah, Heinrich, there were many things in your song which filled me
with a sense of unholy awe. I could not but think of the picture you
drew of the poor disembodied shades wandering on the banks of Acheron,
when the Landgrave once asked you the cause of your secret pain. I
could but fancy that you had bidden farewell to love, and that what you
have obtained in its place is but the useless hoard of the wanderer
lost in the wilderness. Even now I cannot help fearing--pardon me for
speaking so plainly--that you have bought your mastership with all that
joy in life which is only vouchsafed to the pious and childlike of
spirit. A dark presentiment seizes me. I think of what drove you from
the Wartburg, and the circumstances in which you have returned. Many
things may succeed with you, it is true; perhaps the beautiful star of
hope to which I have been raising my eyes may set for me for ever.
Still, Heinrich--here, take my hand on it--never can any ill-will
towards you find place in my heart. Notwithstanding the good fortune
which is streaming over you now, should you one day suddenly find
yourself on the brink of some deep, bottomless abyss, and the whirl of
giddiness seizes you, and you are about to fall down and be destroyed,
I shall be standing behind you, firm in heart, and I will hold you fast
with my strong arms."
"'Heinrich had listened in profound silence to all that Wolfframb said.
He now covered his face with his mantle, and dashed rapidly in amongst
the thick trees. And Wolfframb heard him sighing and gently sobbing as
he sped quickly away.
"'THE CONTEST ON THE WARTBURG.
"'Much as at first the other masters marvelled at the haughty
Heinrich's songs, and praised them, ere long they began to talk
of spuriousness in the "manners," of emptiness and superficial
display--nay, of absolute wickedness--in the works which he brought
before them. Lady Mathilda, and she alone, had turned to the singer
with her whole soul; and he praised her charms in a "manner" which all
the other masters (except Wolfframb of Eschinbach, who reserved his
opinion) declared to be heathenish and abominable. Before very long
Lady Mathilda became a wholly altered creature. She looked down upon
the other masters with scornful arrogance, and even withdrew her favour
from Wolfframb of Eschinbach. She carried matters so far as to ask
Heinrich of Ofterdingen to give her instruction in the craft of song,
and began to write compositions herself quite in the style of his. From
this time all beauty and attractiveness seemed to abandon this poor
deluded lady. Discarding everything which serves to adorn noble ladies,
and leaving off all womanly ways, she became an uncanny creature,
neither woman nor man, detested by the women and laughed at by the men.
The Landgrave, fearing that this disorder of hers might infect the
other ladies of the Court, issued strict commands that no lady should
occupy herself in composition under pain of banishment, and for this
the men, who were much horrified at Mathilda's state, thanked him
warmly. Countess Mathilda left the Wartburg, and repaired to a castle
not far from Eisenach, whither Heinrich of Ofterdingen would have
followed her had not the Landgrave ordered that he should go through
with the contest to which the other masters had challenged him.
"'"Heinrich of Ofterdingen," the Landgrave said to this overweening
minstrel, "you have in ugly fashion broken up and disturbed, by those
unholy songs of yours, the fair and happy circle which I had collected
in this place. Me you could never beguile; I saw clearly, from the
beginning, that your songs did not come out of the depths of a pure,
honest singer's heart, but were the fruits of the teaching of some
false master. What avails outward ornamentation, glitter, and
brilliance, when what it covers is merely a lifeless corpse? You sing
of lofty matters, of mysteries of the universe, it is true, not as they
dawn in the hearts of men, as sweet presciences of a higher life, but
as the presumptuous astrologer tries to comprehend them, and reduce and
measure them with compass and scale. You should blush, Heinrich of
Ofterdingen, to think at what you have arrived, that your brave, honest
spirit has bent itself to serve an unworthy master."
"'"I know not, my Lord," said Heinrich, "how far I merit your
displeasure and your reproaches. You may possibly alter your opinion
when you hear who the master was who opened to me that province of song
which is his own special home. I left your Court in a condition of the
deepest melancholy; and it may have been that the pain, which then
threatened to destroy me, was in truth only caused by the powerful
effort of the germ within me to burst its way towards the fertilizing
breath of a higher life. In a strange and remarkable manner a little
book came to my hands, in which the greatest master of song on earth
had expounded, with the profoundest science, the principles of the art,
adding one or two compositions of his own. The more I read and studied
in this book, the clearer it became to me what a wretched affair it is
when the singer cannot go beyond expressing in words merely that which
he fancies he feels in his heart. But, more than this, I felt by
degrees as though I were becoming gradually linked on to higher powers,
who often sang through me, instead of its being I myself who sang,
although I was, in absolute truth, the singer at the same time. My
longing to see this great master himself, and listen to the profound
wisdom and the critical judgments streaming from his very lips, became
irresistible. I went, therefore, to Siebenbürgen, for, pray let me tell
you, my Lord, it was to Master Klingsohr himself that I repaired; it is
to him I am indebted for the super-earthly scope of my compositions,
and perhaps you may now take a more favourable view of my feeble
efforts."
"'"The Duke of Austria," the Landgrave said, "has told and has written
me much in praise of your master. Master Klingsohr is versed in
profound and secret sciences. He calculates the courses of the stars,
and distinguishes the wonderful connection existing between them and
the destinies of men. The secrets of the metals, the plants, and the
gems are laid open to him, and at the same time he is skilled in the
conduct of mundane affairs, and aids the Duke of Austria in action, as
well as with advice and counsel. But what all this may have to do with
the singer's pureness of heart I do not know, and I believe, moreover,
that this is exactly the reason why Master Klingsohr's music, artfully
and cleverly thought out and constructed as it doubtless is, has not
the smallest power to touch or move my heart. However that may be,
Heinrich of Ofterdingen, my masters, enraged, nay outraged, at your
arrogant, overbearing demeanour, desire to sing against you for the
prize, for several days together, and that shall now take place."
"'So the masters' contest began, but whether it was that Ofterdingen's
spirit, confounded by false teaching, could no longer find its way by
that pure light which served for truthful minds, or whether the
interest of the occasion redoubled the powers of the other masters, the
result was that each one who sang against him overcame him and gained
the prize, in spite of his utmost efforts. Ofterdingen was very angry
over this disgrace, and began songs which, with contemptuous allusions
to Landgrave Hermann, extolled the Duke of Austria to the skies,
calling him the only glorious sun that had arisen upon art. Moreover,
he attacked the ladies of the Court with insolent and scornful words,
and went on to praise only the charms and beauty of Lady Mathilda, in
heathenish and reprobate style. It could not be but that all the
masters--the gentle Wolfframb of Eschinbach included--fell into just
and righteous indignation at this, so that they trod Heinrich of
Ofterdingen's mastership into the mire in the most fervent and
unsparing songs. Heinrich Schreiber and Johannes Bitterolff stripped
off the false and deceptive outward glitter from Ofterdingen's
compositions, and clearly demonstrated the feebleness of the skeleton
form hidden beneath. But Walther of the Vogelweid, and Reinhard of
Zweckhstein, went further. They maintained that Ofterdingen's conduct
was worthy of condign punishment, which they were prepared and eager to
inflict upon him, sword in hand.
"'Thus Heinrich of Ofterdingen saw his mastership contemptuously
trodden into the mire, and found even his very life in danger. Full of
despair and fury, he appealed to the Landgrave for protection; nay
more, to entrust the decision of the contest for the mastership to
Master Klingsohr, the most renowned master of the time.
"'The Landgrave said:
"'"Matters now have come, between you and the masters, to such a
point that it is no longer merely a question of mastership in the
singer-craft. In those wild, insane songs of yours you have outraged
me, as well as the noble ladies of my Court; therefore my honour and
theirs is involved in the question. But it must be decided in singing
contest, and I agree to this Master Klingsohr of yours being the
arbiter. One of my masters, who shall be chosen by lot, shall contend
with you, and the subject you shall treat of shall be left to your own
selection. But the headsman shall stand behind you with drawn sword,
and he who is vanquished shall be beheaded on the spot. About it,
therefore, arrange for Master Klingsohr's arrival at the Wartburg
within a year and a day, that he may settle the issue of this trial for
life and death."
"'Heinrich departed, and peace returned to the Wartburg for the time.
"'The songs which at this time the masters sang in contest with
Heinrich were spoken of as "the war of the Wartburg."
"'MASTER KLINGSOHR ARRIVES AT EISENACH.
"Nearly a year had elapsed when news came to the Wartburg that Master
Klingsohr had arrived at Eisenach, and taken up his abode in the house
of a citizen named Helgrefe, who lived near the St. George's Gate. The
masters were much relieved in their minds that now their bitter quarrel
with Heinrich of Ofterdingen would be brought to an end; but none of
them was so eager to see this world-renowned master face to face as
Wolfframb of Eschinbach. "It may be," he said to himself, "that, as the
people say, Klingsohr is devoted to unholy arts, that the powers of
evil are at his command, and have aided him to the acquisition of his
mastership in all branches of knowledge. But the noblest wine is grown
upon congealed lava. What recks the thirsty traveller that the grapes
which quench his thirst are nourished by the very fires of hell? I can
profit and delight myself by the masters deep knowledge and skilful
tuition without asking further questions, only assimilating so much of
it as a pure and pious heart may accept."
"'Wolfframb went off at once to Eisenach. When he came in front of the
citizen Helgrefe's house, he found a crowd of people assembled, all
staring, in eager expectancy, up at the balcony. He recognized amongst
them many young men, scholars of the singer's craft, who kept on
quoting this or that saying of the great master. One of them had
written down the words he uttered when he went into Helgrefe's house;
another knew exactly what he had had for dinner; a third averred that
the master had actually looked at him with a smile, because he knew him
to be a singer by his barret-cap, which he wore just as Klingsohr did
his. A fourth began a song which he said was in Klingsohr's "manner."
In short, it was a great excitement and commotion.
"'Wolfframb of Eschinbach at last succeeded in forcing his way with
difficulty through the crowd, and in getting into the house. Helgrefe
welcomed him courteously, and, at his desire, went upstairs to announce
to the master his arrival. The master, however, was engaged in his
studies, and could not receive any one just then. He might come back in
a couple of hours. Wolfframb had to swallow this rebuff. He came back
in some two hours' time, and had to wait an hour longer. After this,
Helgrefe was allowed to usher him in. A strange-looking servant,
dressed in silks of many colours, opened the door of the room, and
Wolfframb went in. He saw before him a tall stately man, dressed in a
robe of dark-red samite, with wide arms, richly trimmed with sable,
pacing up and down the chamber with long solemn steps. His face was
much like that which classical sculptors have given to their
representations of Jupiter, such a domineering gravity sat on the brow,
such a formidable fire flashed out of the great eyes. His cheeks and
chin were covered by a black curling beard, and on his head was what
was either a barret-cap of strange form or a cloth wound round it in a
peculiar fashion; it was hard to determine which. He had his arms
folded over his breast, and, as he paced up and down, he spoke, in a
clear, ringing voice, words which to Wolfframb were incomprehensible.
On looking round the chamber, which was full of books and quantities of
extraordinary-looking apparatus, Wolfframb saw in one corner a little
old pallid mannikin, scarce three feet high, sitting upon a tall stool,
busied in writing down, as hard as he could, all that the master was
saying, on a leaf of parchment, with a silver pen. When this had been
going on for a considerable time, the master's glance fell upon
Wolfframb, and, stopping in his walk, he stood still in the centre of
the chamber. Wolfframb greeted him with pleasant verses, in a light
playful style, explaining that he was come to be edified by Klingsohr's
masterly skill and knowledge, and begging him to respond to him in a
similar vein, so as to display his powers. The master measured him from
head to foot with a wrathful glance, and said:
"'"Heyday! and who may you be, young sir, who have the impertinence to
come here, pitting yourself against me with your idiotic rhymes, as if
actually having the overweening presumption to challenge me to a
prize-singing? Ah! I see! you can be none other than Wolfframb of
Eschinbach, the most unfledged, ignorant laic of those who style
themselves masters of the singer's craft up on the Wartburg. No, no,
boy! You will have to grow a little ere you can hope to pit yourself
against me."
"'Wolfframb had not looked for a reception of this kind. His blood
boiled at Klingsohr's insulting words. He felt the power with which the
heavens had gifted him awaking within him more vividly than was usual.
He looked the master straight in the eyes, gravely and firmly, and
said:
"'"Master Klingsohr, you do not well in assuming this hard and bitter
tone, in place of answering me kindly and frankly, as I addressed you.
I know you are my superior in science, and probably also in the
singer's craft; but that does not justify you in these arrogant
vauntings, which you ought to think beneath you. I tell you to your
face, Master Klingsohr, that I now believe that, as the people say, you
have power over evil spirits, and intercourse with infernal beings,
through the unholy arts which you practise. It is because you can call
up dark spirits from the abyss that your mastership is so great. The
mind of man stands aghast at them, and it is the terror of them which
makes you prevail; not that profound love which streams forth from a
pure singer's soul into the heart of the sympathetically-minded. This
is why you are arrogant, as no singer, whose heart is untainted, ever
can be."
"'"Hoho!" answered Master Klingsohr, "Hoho, young sir! Do not get on
your high horse in this manner. As for my supposed intercourse with
powers of evil, be silent. It is beyond your comprehension; it is but
the idle chatter of childish idiots that it is from such a source that
my skill in sing-craft is derived. But, let me ask you, whence did you
derive what small knowledge on the subject you possess? Do you suppose
I do not know that at Siegebrunnen, in Scotland, Master Friedebrand
lent you certain books, which you, with base ingratitude, did not
return, but kept, and that all your songs are taken from them? Ha ha!
if I have the devil to thank, you have to thank your own ingrained
ingratitude."
"'Wolfframb was aghast at this horrible accusation. He laid his hand on
his heart, and said:
"'"May God be mine aid!--Amen. The spirit of falsehood is mighty within
you, Master Klingsohr. How could I have so shamefully cozened my great
master, Friedebrand, of his precious writings? Let me tell you that I
kept these manuscripts only just as long as Master Friedebrand wished
me to do so, and then gave them back to him again. Have you never
learned anything from the writings of other masters?"
"'"Be that as it may," Klingsohr replied, without paying much attention
to what Wolfframb said, "whencesoever you may have derived your art,
what warrants you in attempting to place yourself on a level with me?
Are you aware how diligently I have studied in Rome, in Paris, in
Cracow; that I have travelled to the distant east, and learned the
secrets of the wise Arabs; that I have sucked the essence of every
school of the singer's craft that exists, and wrung the prize from
every one who has competed with me; that I am a master of the Seven
Liberal Arts? Whereas you, who have spent your days in far-off
Switzerland, at a distance from everything in the shape of art and
science, you, who are a mere laic, ignorant of all book-knowledge,
cannot by any possibility have acquired even the rudiments of the true
craft of song."
"'During this speech of Klingsohr's, Wolfframb's anger had quite calmed
down. The cause may have been that, at Klingsohr's braggart language,
the precious gift of song within him shone forth more jubilantly
bright, as do the sunbeams when they break victoriously through the
heavy clouds which the storm has brought driving up on its wings. A
gentle and pleasant smile spread over his face, and he said, in a quiet
tone of self-command, to the irritated Master Klingsohr:
"''Nay, good master, I might reply that though I have never studied at
Rome or Paris, nor sought out the wise Arabs in their own distant land,
I have known many singers of fame and skill (to say nothing of my
master, Friedebrand, whom I followed into the heart of Scotland) whose
instruction has much profited me; and that--like yourself--I have
gained the singer's prize at the courts of many of our exalted princes
in Germany. But I hold that all instruction, and all intercourse with
the greatest masters would have availed me nothing, had not the eternal
might of heaven placed within me the spark which has blazed up into the
glorious beams of song; had I not held--and did I not still hold--afar
from me all that is false or base; did I not strive, with all my
strength, to sing nothing other than that which truly fills my heart."
"'And here he began--he scarcely knew how, or why--to sing a glorious
song, in the "Golden Tone," which he had shortly before composed.
"'Master Klingsohr paced up and down full of wrath. Then he paused
before Wolfframb, gazing at him with his fixed, gleaming eyes, as if he
would pierce him through and through. When Wolfframb had ended,
Klingsohr laid his hands on his shoulders, and said, gently and
quietly, "Well, since you will not have it otherwise, Wolfframb, let us
sing against one another, in all the tones and manners. But we will go
elsewhere; this chamber is not fit for the like. Besides, you must
drink a cup of good wine with me."
"'At this instant the little mannikin who had been writing tumbled down
from his stool, and, as he fell hard on to the floor, he gave a little
delicate cry of pain. Klingsohr turned quickly round, and pushed the
little creature with his foot into a sort of cupboard under the desk,
which he closed upon him. Wolfframb heard the mannikin making a low
whimpering and sobbing. After this, Klingsohr shut all the books which
were lying about open; and each time that he closed one, a strange,
awe-inspiring sound, like a death sigh, passed through the room. Next
he took up in his hands wonderful roots; which, as he took them, had
the appearance of strange unearthly creatures, and struggled with their
stems and fibres, as if with arms and legs. Indeed, often a little,
distorted human-looking countenance would come jerking out grinning and
laughing in a horrible manner. At the same time it grew unquiet in the
cupboards round the room, and a great bird appeared, flapping about in
wavering, irregular flight with whirring wings that glittered like
gold. Darkness was falling fast, and Wolfframb began to feel profound
alarm. Klingsohr took a stone out of a case, which immediately diffused
a light as bright as the sun through the room. On this all grew still,
and Wolfframb saw and heard no more of that which had caused his
uneasiness.
"'Two servants, dressed in the same strange fashion, in many-coloured
silks, as the one who had opened the door at first, came in with
magnificent garments, in which they dressed their master. And then
Klingsohr and Wolfframb went out together to the Town-Cellar.
"'They drank to friendship and reconciliation, and they sang against
each other in all the most skilful and artful "manners." There was no
other master present to decide which of them was the victor, but had
there been one he would doubtless have declared that Klingsohr had the
worst of it. For with the utmost efforts of his art and intelligence he
never in the least attained to the power and sweetness of the simple
songs which Wolfframb sung.
"'The latter had just ended one of his most successful essays when
Master Klingsohr leaned back in his chair, and said, in a low, gloomy
tone:
"'"You called me vain and braggart, Master Wolfframb; but you would
much mistake me if you supposed that I was so blinded by vanity that I
should not recognize the true art of song wherever I come across
it--were it in the wilderness, or in the master's hall. There is none
here to judge between you and me; but I tell you that you have
vanquished me Master Wolfframb: and, by my so saying, you may recognize
the genuineness of my art."
"'"Oh, good Master Klingsohr," said Wolfframb, "it may be that a
certain special sense of happiness which I feel within me to-night may
have made my efforts more successful than they may be at other times.
Far be it from me to rank myself higher than you on that account.
Perhaps your heart was heavy to-day--how often it happens that a heavy
weight seems to lie upon one, like mists resting upon a meadow, and
hindering the flowers from lifting up their heads. You may say you are
vanquished to-night, but nevertheless I admired much in your beautiful
songs, and you may very probably gain the victory to-morrow."
"'"What does that single-hearted modesty of yours avail you?" cried
Master Klingsohr, who started up quickly from his seat, and turning his
back to Wolfframb, placed himself at the lofty window, through which he
gazed in silence at the pale moonbeams falling from on high.
"'After some minutes of this he turned, walked up to Wolfframb and said,
in a loud voice, while his eyes glared with anger:
"'"You were right, Wolfframb of Eschinbach. My skill and knowledge are
backed up by powers of darkness; and your nature and mine must ever be
at variance. You have vanquished me: but in the night which follows
this I will send one to you who is called Nasias. Sing against him; and
have a care that he does not vanquish you."
"'With which Master Klingsohr went storming out of the Town-Cellar.
"'NASIAS COMES BY NIGHT TO VISIT WOLFFRAMB OF ESCHINBACH.
"'Wolfframb lodged in Eisenach over against the Bread House with a
burgher of the name of Gottschalk: a kindly, pious man who held him in
great honour. Although Klingsohr and Eschinbach had thought they were
alone and unobserved in the Town-Cellar, it might well have been that
many of the young scholars of song who dogged and watched every step of
the celebrated master, and strove to catch every word and syllable that
fell from his lips, might have found means to listen to the two masters
singing against each other. At all events, the news that Wolfframb of
Eschinbach had overcome the great Master Klingsohr had spread abroad in
Eisenach, so that Gottschalk had come to hear of it. He hastened to his
lodger full of joy, and asked him how it could possibly have happened
that this haughty master should have consented to undertake a
prize-singing in the Town-Cellar. Wolfframb told him all that had
happened, not concealing the circumstance that Master Klingsohr had
threatened to set one of the name of Nasias at him in the night. At
this Gottschalk turned pale with terror, beat his hands together, and
cried in a lamentable tone:
"'"Ah! gracious heavens, good sir, do you not know that Master
Klingsohr has dealings with evil spirits, which are subject to him and
obliged to execute his commands? Helgrefe, in whose house Master
Klingsohr has taken up his abode, tells his neighbours the strangest
tales as to what goes on there. It seems that often in the night time
one would think a large concourse of people were collected in his room,
although no one is ever seen to go in; and then there begins a wild,
extraordinary singing, and the strangest goings on of all kinds--all
the windows streaming with dazzling light. Very likely this Nasias
may be the very evil one in person, and will carry you off to
perdition--you ought to set off, dearest master. Do not wait for this
terrible visitor--get away, I implore you."
"'"What?" answered Wolfframb. "My good landlord Gottschalk, why would
you have me go away as if I was afraid to sing against this same
Nasias? That would not be conduct for a master singer by any means. Be
Master Nasias an evil spirit or not, I await him patiently and
tranquilly. He may sing me down with his acherontic 'manners,' but he
will strive in vain to beguile my pious heart, or to do hurt to my
immortal soul!"
"'"I am well aware," said Gottschalk, "that you are a valiant
gentleman, and have not the slightest fear of the very devil himself.
But if you are determined to stay here, at least allow my servant Jonas
to be in the room with you. He is a pious, stalwart, broad-shouldered
fellow, and doesn't mind the singing one hair's breadth. And if you
chance to get a little spent, and feel a trifle faint with all the
devilish howling--so that Nasias should be like to get the better of
you and come at you--Jonas will give a shout, and we will come in with
holy water and consecrated candles. And they say the devil cannot
endure the stink of musk which a Capuchin friar has worn on his breast
in a bag. I'll have some of that handy, and will make such a fumigation
that Master Nasias won't have enough breath left to sing a bar."
"'Wolfframb of Eschinbach laughed at his landlord's kindly anxiety, and
said he was now quite ready, and only wished the trial between him and
Nasias were over. Jonas, however--the pious man with the broad
shoulders, proof against all singing, of whatsoever kind--might stay
and be welcome.
"The fateful night arrived. At first all was quiet; till the works of
the church clock whirred and rattled, and it struck twelve. Then a gust
of wind came breezing through the house, ugly voices howled in
confusion and a wild croaking scream as of pain and terror--like that
of some frightened night-bird--was heard. Wolfframb had been immersed
in beautiful, pure, pious poets' fancies, and had almost forgotten the
evil visit in store for him. But now icy shudders ran through his
veins; yet he pulled himself together and went to the centre of the
room. The door burst open with a tremendous crash, which shook the
whole house; and a tall form, surrounded with fiery light, stood before
him, and gazed at him with gleaming, malignant eyes. This form was of
such terrible aspect that doubtless many a man would have lost his
courage, nay, fallen to the ground in wild apprehension; but Wolfframb
stood firm, and asked in a grave and emphatic manner:
"'"What is your will and business in this place?"
"'The form answered, in a horrible, yelling voice:
"'"I am Nasias, come to contend with you in the singer's craft."
"'Nasias opened his large cloak, and Wolfframb saw that he had a number
of books under his arms, which he let fall on the table beside him. He
then at once began a wonderful song, which treated of the Seven Planets
and the music of the Heavenly Spheres, as described in Scipio's Dream,
and he rang the changes on the most ingenious and complicated "tones"
and "manners." Wolfframb, who had seated himself in his armchair,
listened calmly, with downcast eyes; and when he had quite finished
began a beautiful "tone" or "manner" upon religious themes. At this
Nasias jumped hither and thither, and tried to interrupt Wolfframb with
howlings, and to throw the heavy books he had brought with him at the
singer. But the clearer and the stronger that Wolfframb's song streamed
forth, the paler grew Nasias's fieriness, and the more his form
crumbled and shrunk together, so that at last he was running up and
down on the cupboards, with his little red cloak and the thick ruff at
the throat of it, no more than a span long--weaking and squeaking.
Wolfframb, when he had ended his song, was going to catch hold of him,
but he shot out at once to his original size, and breathed out flames
of fire all round him.
"'"Hei! hei!" he cried, in a terrible voice, "none of these tricks on
me, young sir; very likely you may be a great authority on theology,
and well versed in the doctrines and subtleties of your fat book; but
you are not therefore a singer fit to measure himself against me and my
master. Let us have a nice love song, and see where your mastership
will be then."
"He then sang a song concerning Fair Helen, and the marvellous delights
of the Venusberg. And indeed this song was fascinating; and it was as
if the flames which Nasias emitted turned to perfume, breathing
voluptuous passion, delight, and desire, amid which the beautiful
sounds floated up and down, like love gods at play. Wolfframb had
listened to this song as to the former one quietly, with his eyes fixed
on the ground. But soon there came to him a sense as though he were
wandering along the shady alleys of some beautiful garden, while lovely
tones of an exquisite music came floating over the beds of flowers,
breaking through the leafy shadows like the dawning red of morning; and
the songs of the Evil Thing sunk away before them into night, as the
birds of darkness plunge terrified into some deep ravine, croaking at
the coming of the day. And as those tones streamed clearer and clearer,
his heart throbbed with sweet anticipation and ineffable longing. Soon
she who was his life came forth from the thick bushes, in all the
splendour of her beauty and grace; and the leaves rustled, and the
clear streams plashed, greeting the fairest of women with a thousand
sighs of love. She came floating onward, borne on the pinions of song,
as on the outstretched wings of a beautiful swan; and when her heavenly
glance touched him all the bliss of the purest love-rapture awoke in
his heart. In vain he strove to find words, or tones of music. But,
when she vanished, he threw himself down on the flowery mead, he called
her name to the breezes, he embraced the tall lilies, he kissed the
roses on their glowing lips; and all the flowers understood his
rapture, and the morning wind, the brooks, and the bushes talked with
him of the nameless ecstasy of pure affection.
"'Thus, while Nasias was going on with his vain and empty love songs,
Wolfframb was thinking of the moment when he saw Lady Mathilda for the
first time in the garden at the Wartburg; just as she had appeared to
him then, he saw her before him now in all her beauty, looking at him
with the self-same eyes of love.
"Thus he had heard none of that which the Evil Thing was singing, and
when it was done he himself began a song which treated of the bliss of
a pious singer's pure affection in the most glorious strains of power.
"'The Evil Thing grew more and more restless, till at last he began to
bleat like a goat, and do all manner of mischief in the room. Then
Wolfframb arose, and commanded him, in the name of Christ and the
saints, to take himself off. Nasias, spurting out fiery flames around
him, gathered his books together, and cried, with mocking laughter:
"'"Schnib! Schnab! what are you but an ignorant laic?--yield the
mastership to Klingsohr!" he stormed out like a hurricane, and a
stifling stench of sulphur filled the room.
"'Wolfframb opened the windows; the fresh morning air streamed in, and
cleared away all traces of the Evil Thing. Jonas woke up from the deep
sleep into which he had fallen, and wondered not a little to learn that
all was over. He called his master, to whom Wolfframb related all that
occurred. And if Gottschalk had honoured the noble Wolfframb before, he
now looked upon him as a very saint, whose pious power could baffle the
denizens of hell itself. When he chanced to cast his eyes towards the
ceiling of the room, what was his astonishment to see, written in
letters of fire above the door, the words:
"'"Schnib! Schnab! what are you but an ignorant laic?--yield the
mastership to Klingsohr!"
"The Evil Thing had written there the last words he spoke when he took
his departure, by way of an eternal defiance. "Not a single happy
hour," said Gottschalk, "can I spend in this house while that devilish
writing--an affront to my dear Master Wolfframb of Eschinbach--keeps on
burning there on the wall." He went off straight and fetched masons to
plaster the words over with lime. It was so much labour wasted.
"They put on a finger's depth of lime, and still the writing was as
plain as ever. And when they took it all off again and came to the bare
bricks the writing was burning upon them as brightly as before.
Gottschalk uttered loud complaints, and begged Wolfframb to sing
something which should constrain Nasias to remove the horrible writing
himself. Wolfframb said, laughing, that this might not be in his power,
but that Gottschalk should wait patiently, and see if the writing might
perhaps disappear when he had gone away.
"'It was high noon when Wolfframb of Eschinbach left Eisenach in the
happiest possible frame of mind, and the highest spirits, like one who
sees the brightest and most hopeful of prospects dawning before him.
Not far from the town there came, meeting him, Count Meinhard of
Muehlberg, and Walther of Bargel, the cupbearer, dressed in the richest
attire, on gaily caparisoned horses, attended by a numerous retinue.
Wolfframb saluted them, and learned that Landgrave Hermann had
despatched them to Eisenach to escort the renowned Master Klingsohr to
the Wartburg. On the previous night Klingsohr had repaired to a high
window of Helgrefe's house, and consulted the stars with great care.
When he drew his astrological figures, one or two students of
astrology, who had joined him, saw from his looks and manner that some
important secret which he had read in the stars was filling his mind.
They did not hesitate to inquire of him concerning it. Then Klingsohr
rose from his seat, and said, in a solemn tone:
"'"Know that, this night, a daughter will be born to Andreas the
Second, King of Hungary. Her name will be Elizabeth; and, for her
goodness and virtues, she will be canonized, in after time, by Pope
Gregory the Ninth. And this Saint Elizabeth will be the wife of Ludwig,
the son of your Landgrave Hermann."
"'This prophecy was at once communicated to the Landgrave, who was
beyond measure delighted thereat. And he altered his opinion concerning
the renowned master, whose mysterious knowledge had announced the
rising of so fair a star of hope. Wherefore he had determined that
Klingsohr should be conducted to the Wartburg with the pomp and
ceremony due to a prince.
"'Wolfframb thought that now, in all probability, the decision of the
singers' life-and-death trial would be postponed on this account,
especially as Heinrich of Ofterdingen had not made his appearance as
yet. But the knights said that the Landgrave had received news of
Heinrich's arrival, that the inner court of the castle was chosen as
the scene of the contest, and Stempel, the executioner from Eisenach,
ordered to be in attendance.
"'MASTER KLINGSOHR QUITS THE WARTBURG, AND THE
SINGERS-CONTEST IS DECIDED.
"'In a fair and lofty chamber of the Wartburg sate Landgrave Hermann
and Klingsohr in confidential converse together. Klingsohr again
assured the Landgrave that he had distinctly seen and carefully read
the meaning of the constellations on the previous night, and ended by
advising him to despatch an Embassy at once to the King of Hungary to
beg that the infant princess might be betrothed to his son, then eleven
years of age. This counsel pleased the Landgrave well, and, as he now
extolled the master's wisdom, Klingsohr began to discourse so
beautifully of the secrets of nature, and of the macrocosm and the
microcosm, that the Landgrave (himself not unversed in such matters)
was filled with the profoundest admiration.
"'"Master Klingsohr," said the Landgrave, "I would fain continue in the
enjoyment of your skilled and wise society. Leave the inhospitable
Siebenbürgen, and take up your abode at this Court of mine, where, as
you must admit, Art and Science are more highly prized and more truly
cherished than elsewhere. The masters of song will look upon you as
their lord, for I make no doubt that you are as highly gifted in their
art as in astrology and other profound sciences. Remain here,
therefore, and think not of returning to Siebenbürgen."
"'"Nay," most gracious Prince," said Master Klingsohr, "on the
contrary, I must crave your permission to return to Siebenbürgen this
very hour. The country is not so inhospitable as you may suppose. And
then, it is thoroughly meet for my studies. Consider, moreover, that I
may not offend my own king, Andreas the Second, from whom I draw a
yearly allowance of three thousand silver marks, on account of my
knowledge of mining matters, whereby I have discovered for him many
most valuable lodes of metal; so that I live in that peace and freedom
which are essential to the due cultivation of science and art. Whereas
here--even could I forego my yearly allowance--I should be involved in
continual questions and disputes with your masters. My art is based
upon other foundations than theirs, and its inward and outward forms
are totally different. It may be that their pious minds, and what they
term their rich imaginations, suffice to them for the composition of
their works, and that, like timid children, they are afraid to enter
upon another province of their art. I do not say that I think
slightingly of them on that account, but to take my place amongst them
is for ever impossible."
"'"At all events," said the Landgrave, "you will consent to be present,
as arbiter and judge, at the great contest between your pupil Heinrich
of Ofterdingen and the other masters."
"'"Your Highness must pardon me," said Master Klingsohr. "How were it
possible for me to do this thing? And even were it possible, I should
never desire to do it. Yourself, noble Prince, should decide this
contest, merely confirming the popular voice, which will assuredly make
itself heard. But call not Heinrich of Ofterdingen my pupil. He seemed,
at one time, to possess power and courage enough; but he merely gnawed
at the bitter shell, and never got so far as to savour the sweetness of
the kernel. Fix the day for the contest, therefore; I will take care
that Heinrich of Ofterdingen appears with all due punctuality." The
most urgent entreaties of the Landgrave were powerless to soften the
master's obduracy. He stuck to his resolve, and left the Wartburg laden
with rich reward.
"'The fateful day had arrived on which the singers'-contest was to
begin and end. In the castle court lists had been set, almost as if for
a tourney. In the centre of the arena there were two seats, draped with
black, for the contending singers, and behind them a lofty scaffold.
The Landgrave had chosen two noble gentlemen, versed in the singer's
craft (they were the same who had escorted Master Klingsohr to the
Wartburg), and appointed them arbiters. For them and the Landgrave
lofty seats were erected over against those of the contending masters,
and beside them were the places for the ladies and other spectators.
The masters were to take their places on a bench draped with black,
near the contending singers and the scaffold.
"'Thousands of spectators filled the space, and from all the windows
and roofs of the Wartburg an eager throng looked down. The Landgrave,
with the arbiters, entered by the castle gate, to the sound of trumpets
and muffled drums, and took their seats. The masters, in habits of
ceremony, headed by Walther of the Vogelweid, approached, and occupied
the seats allotted to them. Upon the scaffold stood Stempel the
executioner from Eisenach, with his attendants. He was a gigantic man,
of wild, arrogant aspect, wrapped in a wide, blood-red mantle, from the
folds of which peeped out the glittering hilt of his enormous sword.
Father Leonard, the Landgrave's confessor, took his place in front of
the scaffold, to stand by the vanquished in the hour of death.
"A silence of anticipation lay upon the vast assemblage, till the
Landgrave's Marshal, wearing the insignia of his office, stepped
forward to the centre of the arena, and read aloud the conditions of
the contest, and the Landgrave's irreversible decree that he who was
vanquished should have his head struck off by the sword. Father Leonard
raised the crucifix, and all the masters rose from their seats, and on
bended knees vowed, bareheaded, to submit, gladly and readily, to the
Landgrave's decree. Stempel then swung his broad, flashing sword three
times through the air, and cried, in a voice which echoed through the
arena:
"'"Him who is delivered into my hands I will despatch according to the
best of my power and conscience."
"'The trumpets now sounded; the Marshal advanced to the centre of the
arena, and cried aloud, three times running:
"'"Heinrich of Ofterdingen! Heinrich of Ofterdingen! Heinrich of
Ofterdingen!"
"And as though Heinrich had been standing unobserved close to the
barriers, waiting till the sound of the Marshal's words should die
away, he suddenly stood at his side, in the centre of the arena. He
made a lowly reverence to the Landgrave, and said, in a firm voice, he
was ready to contend, according to the decree, with the master
appointed as his adversary, and to submit to the arbiters' award.
"The Marshal then passed along in front of the masters, holding a
silver vase, out of which each of them had to draw a lot. When
Wolfframb of Eschinbach unfolded that which he had drawn, he found it
marked with the sign indicating that he was the master chosen for the
contest. A deadly terror well-nigh unmanned him at the thought of
having thus to enter upon a life-and-death contest with his friend. But
soon he felt that it was of Heaven's mercy that the lot had fallen on
him. If vanquished he would gladly die; but if victor, far sooner would
he go to the death than suffer Heinrich of Ofterdingen to perish by the
sword of the headsman. With a gladsome heart and a serene and pleasant
countenance, he took his appointed place. When he had seated himself
opposite to his friend, a strange feeling, akin to fear, took
possession of him. For he was certainly looking upon the face of his
friend; but out of the deadly pale countenance uncanny eyes were
gleaming at him, and he could not help remembering Nasias.
"'Heinrich of Ofterdingen began his songs, and Wolfframb was greatly
startled when he recognised them to be the same which Nasias had sung
on the night when he came to him. But he collected himself with all his
might, and replied to his antagonist with a magnificent song, in such
sort that the acclamations of the thousand voices of the audience rang
through the air, and the people at once accorded him the victory. But
the Landgrave ordered that Heinrich of Ofterdingen should sing again,
and Heinrich went on with songs which, in the marvellousness of their
"manners," were so pregnant with the joy of the animalism of life, that
the listeners sank into a species of gentle intoxication, as if under
the influence of "the drowsy syrups of the East." Even Wolfframb felt
himself drawn as into a foreign province of existence. He could think
no more of his own songs, nor even of himself.
"At this moment a sound arose at the gate leading to the arena, and the
crowd parted and made way. An electric stroke seemed to penetrate
Wolfframb; he awoke from his reverie and looked in the direction of
this interruption. Oh, Heaven! Lady Mathilda appeared, advancing in all
the simple grace and beauty which had adorned her when first he saw her
in the Wartburg garden. She looked at him with a glance of the deepest
affection; and the blissfulness of heaven and the most glowing rapture
soared jubilantly forth in ins song, as had been the case on the night
when he vanquished the Evil Thing. With the stormiest enthusiasm the
listeners proclaimed him the victor. The Landgrave and the arbiters
rose, the trumpets sounded. The Marshal took the garland from the
Landgrave's hand to crown the victorious master.
"Then the executioner prepared to do his duty. But when the apparitors
went up to seize the vanquished singer, they found themselves grasping
at a cloud of black smoke, which rose up, rushing and crackling and
suddenly vanished in the air. Heinrich of Ofterdingen had disappeared,
none knew how.
"'The crowd ran wildly hither and thither in confusion, with
consternation and terror on their pale faces. People spoke of
diabolical forms--of unholy enchantment; but the Landgrave assembled
the masters around him, and said:
"'"I now understand what Master Klingsohr meant when he spoke so
strangely and mysteriously on the subject of the singers' contest, and
would on no account undertake the deciding of it himself; and I have
cause to be grateful to him that all has turned out as it has. Whether
it was Heinrich of Ofterdingen who took the place appointed for him in
the arena, or one whom Klingsohr sent in his pupil's stead, matters
not. The contest is decided in your favour, my trusty masters, and we
can now honour the glorious craft of song, and cultivate it to the best
of our ability in peace."
"'Certain of the Landgrave's retainers who had been on warders' duty at
the castle said that, at the very time when Wolfframb of Eschinbach won
the prize and conquered the ostensible Heinrich of Ofterdingen, a
figure much resembling Master Klingsohr had been seen to dash out of
the gateway on a foaming steed.
"'CONCLUSION.
"'Meanwhile Countess Mathilda had gone into the garden of the Wartburg,
and Wolfframb of Eschinbach had followed her.
"'And when he found her there, seated on a flowery bank of moss, with
hands folded in her lap and her lovely head drooping sadly towards the
ground, he threw himself at her beloved feet, unable to utter a word.
Mathilda put her arms about him, and both of them shed hot tears of
sweet sorrow and lovers' pain.
"'"Ah! Wolfframb," she cried, "what an evil dream has befooled me! How
have I, a foolish, unreasoning, blinded child, abandoned myself to the
snares of the Evil One who was lying in wait to compass my destruction!
Ah! how I have failed in my duty to you! Is it possible that you can
pardon me?"
"'Wolfframb clasped her to his heart, and, for the first time, pressed
burning kisses on her rosy lips. He assured her that she had always
dwelt in his heart, that he had ever been faithful to her in spite of
the powers of evil; that it was she, the lady of his thoughts, alone,
who had been his inspiration in the song with which he vanquished them.
"'"Oh, my beloved!" she said, "let me tell you in what a wonderful
manner you rescued me from the snares of the Wicked One which were set
for me. There came a night, not very long ago, when strange and
terrible ideas took hold upon me. Whether it was bliss or pain that so
powerfully oppressed me that I scarce could breathe, I cannot tell.
But, driven by an impulse which I could not resist, I began to write a
song which was altogether in the 'manner' of my weird master. As I
wrote, I heard a strange music, partly beautiful, partly repulsive and
horrible, which benumbed my senses, and it was as if, instead of the
song, what I had written was some terrible formula, some spell which
the powers of darkness must obey. A wild, terrible form started up; it
clasped me with burning arms, and was carrying me away to the black
abyss. Then a song came shining through the darkness, whose tones had
the mild, soft radiance of the light of stars. At this the dark form
was compelled to loose its clasp of me, yet it stretched its arms
towards me in fury. It could not touch me, but only the song I had been
writing. It clutched that, and plunged screaming with it into the
abyss. It was your song which saved me, the same which you sung to-day
when you won the contest. Now I am wholly yours. My songs are all
faithful love for you, whose inexpressible blissfulness no words have
power to tell."
"'The lovers again fell into each other's arms, and could not cease
talking of the tortures they had undergone, and the bliss of their
reunion.
"'But in the night when Wolfframb overcame Nasias, Mathilda had
distinctly heard, and comprehended--in a dream--the song which
Wolfframb, in the height of his inspired affection, was singing; the
one which he repeated afterwards at the Wartburg contest.
"'Wolfframb was sitting in his chamber at late eventide thinking of new
songs, when his landlord Gottschalk came in full of joy, crying:
"'"Ah! noble sir, how you have vanquished the Evil One by the power of
your art and skill! The horrible writing in your chamber has gone out
of its own accord, God be praised and thanked for the same! I have
brought something which was left at my house to be conveyed to you."
With which he produced a folded letter, well sealed with wax. It was
from Heinrich of Ofterdingen, and to the following effect.
"'"I greet you, my trusty Wolfframb, as one who has recovered from some
terrible sickness which threatened his death. Many marvellous things
have happened to me. But I would fain keep silence as to the evils of a
time, which lies behind me now like a dark, impenetrable mystery.
Doubtless you remember the words you spoke, when I was boasting of the
inward power which elevated me above you and the other masters. You
said then, that perhaps I should find myself on the brink of some
terrible abyss, a prey to giddiness, ready to fall down into it; and
that then you would hold me back with your strong arms. Wolfframb, that
which your prophetic soul foresaw, was that which came to pass! I stood
on the brink of an abyss, and you held me fast when the fatal giddiness
had wellnigh benumbed my senses. It was your splendid victory which
annihilated my adversary, and restored me to life and happiness. Yes,
Wolfframb! before your love the mighty veils which enwrapped me fell
away, and I looked up again to the bright heavens. Can my affection for
you be otherwise than redoubled? You recognized Klingsohr as a great
master--and that he is. But woe to him who--not endowed with that
peculiar strength which he possesses--ventures, like him, to strive
towards the dark realm, which he has laid open to himself. I have
renounced him, and totter on the brink of the Hell-river, helpless and
wretched, no longer. I am restored to the joys of home.
"'"Mathilda, ah no! Doubtless it was never that glorious lady. It was
some foul enchantment, which filled me with deceptive visions of a
paradise on earth--of vain, mundane pleasure. May all that I did in my
days of madness be forgotten. Greet the masters, and tell them how it
is with me now. Fare thee well, most sincerely beloved Wolfframb.
Peradventure you may hear tidings of me ere long."
"'After some time news came to the Wartburg that Heinrich was at the
Court of Leopold the Seventh, Duke of Austria, singing many beautiful
songs. Soon afterwards Landgrave Hermann received copies of the same,
together with the "manners" to which they were to be sung. All the
masters were heartily delighted, and convinced that Heinrich of
Ofterdingen had renounced all that was false, and preserved his pure
singer's heart inviolate, through all the Evil One's attempts upon him.
"'Thus it was Wolfframb of Eschinbach's high art of song, as it
streamed from the depths of his purest of souls, which, in glorious
victory over his enemy, rescued his beloved and his friend from utter
perdition.'"
The friends gave diverse verdicts as to Cyprian's tale, Theodore
disapproved of it altogether, and said Cyprian had utterly marred for
him the beautiful picture, which Novalis had drawn of the grandly
inspired Heinrich of Ofterdingen. But his chief objection was that the
singers never actually got the length of any singing, for sheer
continual preparation to sing. Ottmar supported him; but, at the same
time, considered that the introductory vision might be admitted to be
Serapiontic; although, at the same time, Cyprian ought to be careful
for the future not to dip into Ancient Chronicles, because reading of
that sort was apt--as the present instance proved--to lead him into an
unfamiliar province, in which--not being native to the soil, nor
endowed with a strong bump of locality--he wandered astray and lost
himself, without being able to find the real path.
Cyprian, putting on a face of vexation, jumped hastily up, went to the
fire, and was going to throw his manuscript into it. But Lothair went
up to him, seized him by the shoulders, turned him about, and said with
solemnity:
"Cyprian, Cyprian! withstand strenuously the foul fiend of author's
pride, which, is vexing you, and whispering all manner of ugly things
in your ear. I will address you in the formula of conjuration employed
by the doughty Tobias von Ruelp, 'Come, come--tuck, tuck--it is
contrary to all respectability, man, to play at pitch and toss with the
Devil. Away with the ugly sweep!' Ha! your face lightens up! You are
smiling! See what power over the demons I possess; and now I have some
healing balm to drop upon the wounds, which your friends' adverse
verdicts have inflicted. If Ottmar thinks your introduction is
Serapiontic, I may say as much for Klingsohr, and the fiery demon
Nasias. Also the little automatic secretary strikes me as by no means
lightly to be esteemed. If Theodore objects to the way in which you
have portrayed Heinrich of Ofterdingen, at all events the suggestion of
your portrait of him is to be found in Wagenseil. If he thinks it a
fault that the singers never arrive at any actual singing from
continual preparation for the same, I must confess that I do not quite
know what he means. Perhaps he does not quite know, himself, what he
means. I should scarcely think he would have wished you to introduce
little verses of poetry, as being the masters' songs. The very fact of
your not having done so, but left their words to our imaginations,
redounds greatly to your credit in my opinion. I can never tolerate the
introducing of verses into a story. They always seem to go along in it
so lamely and limpingly, and interrupt its progress in an unnatural
sort of manner. The writer--keenly impressed with the feebleness of his
matter at some particular point--grasps at the crutch of verse. But if
he manages, in this fashion, to prop himself along for a time, this
sort of uniform, monotonous, tottery, pit-a-pat movement is very
different from the firm tread of vigorous health; and, probably, it is
a frequent error of our modern writers, that they seek their salvation
exclusively in the outward, metrical form, forgetting that it is the
poetic matter only which gives the metric pinions their due swing.
Well-sounding verses have the power of inducing a species of
somnambulistic intoxication; but this is very much like the effect of
the sound of a mill, or of other similar, regular and monotonous
noises. They procure one a sound sleep. All this I merely say en
passant, for the behoof of our musical Theodore, who is very often
deluded ('bribed' was the word I was going to employ) by the sweet
sound of meaningless verses; and, indeed, he is often attacked by a
sort of 'sonnetical' mania, under the influence of which he brings into
the world the strangest automaton-like little monsters. But now for you
again, Cyprian. I do not think you ought to plume yourself much on your
'Singers' Contest.' I cannot say that I am altogether satisfied with
it, though it certainly does not deserve death by fire. The laws of the
land declare that abortions are not to be put to death if they have
human heads; and in my opinion, this child of yours is not only not an
abortion at all, but it is fairly well-shapen, though it may be a
little weak about the limbs."
Cyprian pocketed his manuscript, and said, with a smile:
"My dear friends, you know my little peculiarity. When I get a little
annoyed, because some fault is found with any of my feeble efforts,
this is merely because I am so well aware how thoroughly the censure is
deserved, and how much my productions merit it. Do not let us say
another word on the subject of this story of mine."
After this the friends went back to the subject of Vincent, and his
bent towards the marvellous. Cyprian's view was, that such a bent must
of necessity be inherent in all poetic temperaments, and that this was
why Jean Paul has said so many magnificent things on the subject of
mesmerism, that a whole universe of hostile doubt would sink into
insignificance in comparison with them; that poetical persons are the
pet children of Nature, and that it is silly to suppose she can be
displeased when those darlings of hers try to discover secrets which
she has shrouded with her veil--as a fond mother hides from her
children some valuable gift, only that she may afford them the greater
pleasure by disclosing it to them.
"But, to speak practically," said Cyprian, "and this principally to
please you, Ottmar: who that has looked carefully into the history of
the human race--can have failed to be struck by the circumstance that,
as soon as some disease makes its appearance like a ravening monster,
Nature herself comes to the front with the weapons necessary to
vanquish it; and, as soon as it has been overcome, another monster
makes its appearance, with fresh powers of destruction; and new
weapons are discovered again? And so goes on the everlasting contest
which is a condition of the process of life--of the organic structure
of the entire world. How if, in these times, when everything is
spiritualized--when the interior relationship, the mysterious
interdependence and interplay of the physical and psychical principles,
are coming more and more clearly and importantly into evidence; when
every bodily malady is found to have its corresponding expression in
the psychic organism--how, I say, if mesmerism were the weapon--forged
in the spirit--which Nature herself presents to us, as the means of
combatting the evil which is located in the spirit?"
"Stay, stay!" cried Lothair, "where are we getting to? We have talked
far too much already on a subject which must always remain a foreign
province for us; in which we can, at most, pluck for poetic purposes a
few fruits, tempting by their colour and aroma; or transplant a pretty
little tree or so into our poetic garden. I was delighted when
Cyprian's story interrupted our wearisome discussion on this subject,
and now we seem to be in danger of getting deeper into it than ever.
Let us turn to something else. But wait a moment. First, I should like
to give you a little '_pezzo_' of our friend's mystical experiments,
which I am sure you will enjoy. It is briefly this:--A considerable
time ago I was invited to a little evening gathering, where our friend
was, along with some others. I was detained by business, and did not
arrive till very late. All the more surprised was I not to hear the
very slightest sound as I came up to the door of the room. Could it be
that nobody had been able to go? Thus cogitating, I gently opened the
door. There sat Vincent, over against me, with the others, round a
little table; and they were all staring, stiff and motionless like so
many statues, in the profoundest silence, up at the ceiling. The lights
were on a table at some distance, and nobody took any notice of me, I
went nearer, full of amazement, and saw a glittering gold ring swinging
backwards and forwards in the air, and presently beginning to move in
circles. One and another then said, 'Wonderful!' 'Very wonderful!'
'Most inexplicable!' 'Curious thing!' etc. I could no longer contain
myself, and cried out, 'For Heaven's sake, tell me what you are about?'
"At this they all jumped up. But Vincent cried, in that shrill voice of
his:
"'Recreant! obscure Nicodemus, coming slinking in like a sleep-walker,
interrupting the most important and interesting experiments. Let me
tell you that a phenomenon which the incredulous have, without a
moment's hesitation, classed in the category of the fabulous has just
been verified by the present company. We wished to try whether the
pendulum-oscillations of a suspended ring could be controlled by the
concentrated human will. I undertook to fix my will upon it; and
thought steadfastly of circular-shaped oscillations. The ring--fixed to
the ceiling by a silk thread--remained motionless for a very long time.
But at last it began to swing, in an acute angle with reference to my
position, and it was just beginning to swing in circles when you came
in and interrupted us.'"
"'But what if it were not your will,' I said, so 'much as the draught
of air when I opened the door, which set the contumacious ring in
motion?'
"'Prosaic wretch!' cried Vincent: but everybody laughed."
"The pendulum-oscillations of rings drove me nearly crazy at one time,"
said Theodore. "Thus much is matter of absolute certainty, and any one
can convince himself of it, that the oscillations of a plain gold ring,
suspended by a fine thread over the palm of the hand held level,
unquestionably take the direction which the unuttered will directs them
to take. I cannot tell you how profoundly, and how eerily, this
phenomenon affected me. I used to sit for hours at a time making the
ring go swinging in the most various directions, as I willed it to do;
and at last I went the length of making a regular oracle of it. I would
say, in my mind, if such and such a thing is going to happen, the ring
will swing in the direction between the little finger and the thumb; if
it is not going to happen, it will swing at right angles to that
direction, and so on."'
"Delightful!" said Lothair, "you set up, within your own self, a higher
spiritual principle, which, conjured up in mystic fashion by yourself,
should make utterances to you. Here we have the true "spiritus
familiaris," the socratic dæmon! from hence there is only a very short
step to the region of ghost, and haunting stories, which might easily
have their _raison d'être_ in the influence of some exterior spiritual
principle."
"And I mean to actually take this step," said Cyprian, "by telling you,
on the spot, the most awful and terrible supernatural story I have ever
heard of. The peculiarity of this story is, that it is amply vouched
for by persons of credibility, and that the manner in which it has been
brought to my knowledge, or recollection, has to do with the excited,
or (if you prefer to say so) disordered condition which Lothair
observed me to be in a short time ago."
Cyprian stood up; and, as was his habit when his mind was full of
something, so that he had to take a little time to arrange his words in
order to express it, he walked several times up and down the room.
Presently he sat down, and began:--
"You may remember that some little time ago, just before the last
campaign, I was paying a visit to Colonel Von P---- at his country
house. The colonel was a good-tempered, jovial man, and his wife
quietness and simpleness personified. At the time I speak of the son
was away with the army, so that the family circle consisted, besides
the colonel and his lady, of two daughters, and an elderly French lady,
who was trying to persuade herself that she was fulfilling the duties
of a species of governess though the young ladies appeared to be beyond
the period of being "governessed." The elder of the two was a most
lively and cheerful creature, vivacious even to ungovernability; not
without plenty of brains, but so constituted that she could not go five
yards without cutting at least three "entrechats." She sprung, in the
same fashion, in her conversation, and in all that she did, restlessly
from one thing to another. I myself have seen her, within the space of
five minutes, work at needlework, read, draw, sing, and dance, or cry
about her poor cousin who was killed in battle, one moment, and while
the bitter tears were still in her eyes, burst into a splendid,
infectious burst of laughter when the French-woman spilt the contents
of her snuff-box over the pug, who at once began to sneeze frightfully,
and the old lady cried, "Ah, che fatalita! Ah carino! Poverino!"
"'For she always spoke to the dog in Italian because he was born in
Padua. Moreover, this young lady was the loveliest blonde ever seen,
and, in all her odd caprices, full of the utmost charm, goodness,
kindliness and attractiveness, so that, whether she would or no, she
exerted the most irresistible charm over every one.
"The younger sister was the greatest possible contrast to her (her name
was Adelgunda). I strive in vain to find words in which to express to
you the extraordinary impression which this girl produced upon me when
first I saw her. Picture to yourselves the most exquisite figure, and
the most marvellously beautiful face; but the cheeks and lips wear a
deathly pallor, and the figure moves gently, softly, slowly, with
measured steps; and then, when a low-toned word is heard from the
scarce opened lips and dies away in the spacious chamber, one feels a
sort of shudder of spectral awe; of course I soon got over this eery
feeling, and, when I managed to get her to emerge from her deep
self-absorbed condition and converse, I was obliged to admit that the
strangeness, the eeriness, was only external, and by no means came from
within. In the little she said there displayed themselves a delicate
womanliness, a clear head, and a kindly disposition. There was not a
trace of over-excitability, though her melancholy smile, and her
glance, heavy as with tears, seemed to speak of some morbid bodily
condition producing a hostile influence on her mental state. It struck
me as very strange that the whole family, not excepting the French
lady, seemed to get into a state of much anxiety as soon as any one
began to talk to this girl, and tried to interrupt the conversation,
often breaking into it in a very forced manner. But the most
extraordinary thing of all was that, as soon as it was eight o'clock in
the evening, the young lady was reminded, first by the French lady and
then by her mother, sister, and father, that it was time to go to her
room, just as little children are sent to bed that they may not
overtire themselves. The French lady went with her, so that they
neither of them ever appeared at supper, which was at nine o'clock. The
lady of the house, probably remarking my surprise at those proceedings,
threw out (by way of preventing indiscreet inquiries) a sort of sketchy
statement to the effect that Adelgunda was in very poor health, that,
particularly about nine in the evening, she was liable to feverish
attacks, and that the doctors had ordered her to have complete rest at
that time. I saw there must be more in the affair than this, though I
could not imagine what it might be; and it was only this very day that
I ascertained the terrible truth, and discovered what the events were
which have wrecked the peace of that happy circle in the most frightful
manner.
"'Adelgunda was at one time the most blooming, vigorous, cheerful
creature to be seen. Her fourteenth birthday came, and a number of her
friends and companions had been invited to spend it with her. They were
all sitting in a circle in the shrubbery, laughing and amusing
themselves, taking little heed that the evening was getting darker and
darker, for the soft July breeze was blowing refreshingly, and they
were just beginning thoroughly to enjoy themselves. In the magic
twilight they set about all sorts of dances, pretending to be elves and
woodland sprites. Adelgunda cried, "Listen, children! I shall go and
appear to you as the White Lady whom our gardener used to tell us about
so often while he was alive. But you must come to the bottom of the
garden, where the old ruins are." She wrapped her white shawl round
her, and went lightly dancing down the leafy alley, the girls following
her, in full tide of laughter and fun. But Adelgunda had scarcely
reached the old crumbling arches, when she suddenly stopped, and stood
as if paralyzed in every limb. The castle clock struck nine.
"'"Look, look!" cried she, in a hollow voice of the deepest terror.
"Don't you see it? the figure--close before me--stretching her hand out
at me. Don't you see her?"
"The children saw nothing whatever; but terror came upon them, and they
all ran away, except one, more courageous than the rest, who hastened
up to Adelgunda, and was going to take her in her arms. But Adelgunda,
turning pale as death, fell to the ground. At the screams of the other
girl every body came hastening from the castle, and Adelgunda was
carried in. At last she recovered from her faint, and, trembling all
over, told them that as soon as she reached the ruins she saw an airy
form, as if shrouded in mist, stretching its hand out towards her. Of
course every one ascribed this vision to some deceptiveness of the
twilight; and Adelgunda recovered from her alarm so completely that
night that no further evil consequences were anticipated, and the whole
affair was supposed to be at an end. However, it turned out altogether
otherwise. The next evening, when the clock struck nine, Adelgunda
sprung up, in the midst of the people about her, and cried--
"'"There she is! there she is. Don't you see her--just before me?"
"'Since that unlucky evening, Adelgunda declared that, as soon as the
clock struck nine, the figure stood before her, remaining visible for
several seconds, although no one but herself could see anything of it,
or trace by any psychic sensation the proximity of an unknown spiritual
principle. So that poor Adelgunda was thought to be out of her mind;
and, in strange perversion of feeling, the family were ashamed of this
condition of hers. I have told you already how she was dealt with in
consequence. There was, of course, no lack of doctors, or of plans of
treatment for ridding the poor soul of the "fixed idea," as people were
pleased to term the apparition which she said she saw. But nothing had
any effect; and she implored, with tears, that she might be left in
peace, inasmuch as the form which, in its vague, uncertain traits, had
nothing terrible or alarming about it, no longer caused her any fear;
although, for a time after seeing it she felt as if her inner being and
all her thoughts and ideas were turned out from her, and were hovering,
bodiless, about, outside of her. At last the colonel made the
acquaintance of a celebrated doctor, who had the reputation of being
specially clever in the treatment of the mentally afflicted. When this
doctor heard Adelgunda's story he laughed aloud, and said nothing could
be easier than to cure a condition of the kind, which resulted solely
from an over-excited imagination. The idea of the appearing of the
spectre was so intimately associated with the striking of nine o'clock,
that the mind could not dissociate them. So that all that was necessary
was to effect this separation by external means; as to which there was
no difficulty, as it was only necessary to deceive the patient as to
the time, and let nine o'clock pass without her being aware of it. If
the apparition did not then appear, she would be convinced, herself,
that it was an illusion; and measures to give tone to the general
system would be all that would then be necessary to complete the
cure. This unfortunate advice was taken. One night all the clocks at
the castle were put back an hour--the hollow, booming tower clock
included--so that, when Adelgunda awoke in the morning, she found
herself an hour wrong in her time. When evening came, the family were
assembled, as usual, in a cheerful corner room; no stranger was
present, and the mother constrained herself to talk about all sorts of
cheerful subjects. The colonel began (as was his habit, when in
specially good humour) to carry on an encounter of wit with the old
French lady, in which Augusta, the elder of the daughters, aided and
abetted him. Everybody was laughing, and more full of enjoyment than
ever. The clock on the wall struck eight (so that it was really nine
o'clock) and Adelgunda fell back in her chair, pale as death; her work
dropped from her hands; she rose, with a face of horror, stared before
her into the empty part of the room, and murmured, in a hollow voice--
"'"What! an hour earlier! Don't you see it? Don't you see it? Right
before me!"
"'Every one rose up in alarm. But as none of them saw the smallest
vestige of anything, the colonel cried--
"'"Calm yourself, Adelgunda, there is nothing there! It is a vision of
your brain, a deception of your fancy. We see nothing, nothing
whatever; and if there really were a figure close to you we should see
it as well as you! Calm yourself."
"'"Oh God!" cried Adelgunda, "they think I am out of my mind. See! it
is stretching out its long arm, it is making signs to me!"
"'And, as though she were acting under the influence of another,
without exercise of her own will, with eyes fixed and staring, she put
her hand back behind her, took up a plate which chanced to be on the
table, held it out before her into vacancy, and let it go, and it went
hovering about amongst the lookers on, and then deposited itself gently
on the table. The mother and Augusta fainted; and these fainting fits
were succeeded by violent nervous fever. The colonel forced himself to
retain his self-control, but the profound impression which this
extraordinary occurrence made on him was evident in his agitated and
disturbed condition.
"'The French lady had fallen on her knees and prayed in silence with
her face turned to the floor, and both she and Adelgunda remained free
from evil consequences. The mother very soon died. Augusta survived the
fever; but it would have been better had she died. She who, when I
first saw her, was an embodiment of vigorous, magnificent youthful
happiness, is now hopelessly insane, and that in a form which seems to
me the most terrible and gruesome of all the forms of fixed idea ever
heard of. For she thinks she is the invisible phantom which haunts
Adelgunda; and therefore she avoids every one, or, at all events,
refrains from speaking, or moving if anybody is present. She scarce
dares to breathe, because she firmly believes that if she betrays her
presence in any way every one will die. Doors are opened for her, and
her food is set down, she slinks in and out, eats in secret, and so
forth. Can a more painful condition be imagined?
"'The colonel, in his pain and despair, followed the colours to the
next campaign, and fell in the victorious engagement at W----. It is
remarkable, most remarkable that, since then, Adelgunda has never seen
the phantom. She nurses her sister with the utmost care, and the French
lady helps her. Only this very day Sylvester told me that the uncle of
these poor girls is here, taking the advice of our celebrated R----, as
to the means of cure to be tried in Augusta's case. God grant that the
cure may succeed, improbable as it seems.'"
When Cyprian finished, the friends all kept silence, looking
meditatively before them. At last Lothair said,
"It is certainly a very terrible ghost story. I must admit it makes me
shudder, although the incident of the hovering plate is rather trifling
and childish."
"Not so fast, dear Lothair," Ottmar interrupted. "You know my views
about ghost stories, and the manner in which I swagger towards
visionaries; maintaining, as I do, that often as I have thrown down my
glove to the spirit world, overweeningly enough, to enter the lists
with me, it has never taken the trouble to punish me for my presumption
and irreverence. But Cyprian's story suggests another consideration.
Ghost stories may often be mere chimeras; but, whatever may have been
at the bottom of Adelgunda's phantom, and the hovering plate, thus
much is certain, that, on that evening, in the family of Colonel Von
P---- there happened something which produced, in three of the persons
present, such a shock to the system that the result was the death of
one and the insanity of another; if we do not ascribe, at least
indirectly, the colonel's death to it too. For I happen to remember
that I heard from officers who were on the spot, that he suddenly
dashed into the thick of the enemy's fire as if impelled by the furies.
Then the incident of the plate differs so completely from anything in
the ordinary _mise en scene_ of supernatural stories. The hour when it
happened is so remote from ordinary supernatural use and wont, and the
thing so simple, that it is exactly in the very probability which the
improbability of it thereby acquires that the gruesomeness of it lies
for me. But if one were to assume that Adelgunda's imagination carried
away, by its influence, those of her father, mother and sister--that it
was only within her brain that the plate moved about--would not this
vision of the imagination striking three people dead in a moment, like
a shock of electricity, be the most terrible supernatural event
imaginable?"
"Certainly," said Theodore, "and I share with you, Ottmar, your opinion
that the very horror of the incident lies in its utter simpleness. I
can imagine myself enduring, fairly well, the sudden alarm produced by
some fearful apparition; but the weird actions of some invisible thing
would infallibly drive me mad. The sense of the most utter, most
helpless powerlessness must grind the spirit to dust. I remember that I
could scarce resist the profound terror which made me afraid to sleep
in my room alone, like a silly child, when I once read of an old
musician who was haunted in a terrible manner for a long time (almost
driving him out of his mind) by an invisible being which used to play
on his piano in the night, compositions of the most extraordinary kind,
with the power and the technique of the most accomplished master. He
heard every note, saw the keys going up and down, but never any form of
a player."
"Really," Cyprian said, "the way in which this class of subject is
flourishing amongst us is becoming unendurable, I have admitted that
the incident of that accursed plate produced the profoundest impression
on me. Ottmar is right; if events are to be judged by their results,
this is the most terrible supernatural story conceivable. Wherefore I
pardon Cyprian's disturbed condition which he displayed earlier in the
evening, and which has passed away considerably now. But not another
word on the subject of supernatural horrors. I have seen a manuscript
peeping for some time out of Ottmar's breast-pocket, as if craving for
release; let him release it therefore."
"No, no," said Theodore, "the flood which has been rolling along in
such stormy billows must be gently led away. I have a manuscript well
adapted for that end, which some peculiar circumstances led to my
writing at one time. Although it deals pretty largely with the
mystical, and contains plenty of psychical marvels and strange
hypotheses, it links itself on pretty closely to affairs of every-day
life." He read:
"'AUTOMATONS.
"'"The talking Turk" was attracting universal attention, and setting
the town in commotion. The hall where this automaton was exhibited was
thronged by a continual stream of visitors, of all sorts and
conditions, from morning till night, all eager to listen to the
oracular utterances which were whispered to them by the motionless lips
of that wonderful quasi-human figure. The manner of the construction
and arrangement of this automaton distinguished it in a marked degree
from all puppets of the sort usually exhibited. It was, in fact, a very
remarkable automaton. About the centre of a room of moderate size,
containing only a few indispensable articles of furniture, at this
figure, about the size of a human being, handsomely formed, dressed in
a rich and tasteful Turkish costume, on a low seat shaped as a tripod,
which the exhibitor would move if desired, to show that there was no
means of communication between it and the ground. Its left hand was
placed in an easy position on its knee, and its right rested on a
small movable table. Its appearance, as has been said, was that of a
well-proportioned, handsome man, but the most remarkable part of it was
its head. A face expressing a genuine Oriental astuteness gave it an
appearance of life rarely seen in wax figures, even when they represent
the characteristic countenances of talented men. A light railing
surrounded the figure, to prevent the spectators from crowding too
closely about it; and only those who wished to inspect the construction
of it (so far as the Exhibitor could allow this to be seen without
divulging his secret), and the person whose turn it was to put a
question to it, were allowed to go inside this railing, and close up to
it. The usual mode of procedure was to whisper the question you wished
to ask into the Turk's right ear; on which he would turn, first his
eyes, and then his whole head, towards you; and as you were sensible of
a gentle stream of air, like breath coming from his lips, you could not
but suppose that the low reply which was given to you did really
proceed from the interior of the figure. From time to time, after a few
answers had been given, the Exhibitor would apply a key to the Turk's
left side, and wind up some clockwork with a good deal of noise. Here,
also, he would, if desired, open a species of lid, so that you could
see inside the figure a complicated piece of mechanism consisting of a
number of wheels; and although you might not think it probable that
this had anything to do with the speaking of the automaton, still it
was evident that it occupied so much space that no human being could
possibly be concealed inside, were he no bigger than Augustus's dwarf
who was served up in a pasty. Besides the movement of the head, which
always took place before an answer was given, the Turk would sometimes
also raise his right hand, and either make a warning gesture with the
finger, or, as it were, motion the question away with the whole hand.
When this happened, nothing but repeated urging by the questioner could
extract an answer, which was then generally ambiguous or angry. It
might have been that the wheel work was connected with, or answerable
for, those motions of the head and hands, although even in this the
agency of a sentient being seemed essential. People wearied themselves
with conjectures concerning the source and agent of this marvellous
Intelligence. The walls, the adjoining room, the furniture, everything
connected with the exhibition, were carefully examined and scrutinised,
all completely in vain. The figure and its Exhibitor were watched and
scanned most closely by the eyes of the most expert in mechanical
science; but the more close and minute the scrutiny, the more easy and
unconstrained were the actions and proceedings of both. The Exhibitor
laughed and joked in the furthest corner of the room with the
spectators, leaving the figure to make its gestures and give its
replies as a wholly independent thing, having no need of any connection
with him. Indeed he could not wholly restrain a slightly ironical smile
when the table and the figure and tripod were being overhauled and
peered at in every direction, taken as close to the light as possible,
and inspected by powerful magnifying glasses. The upshot of it all was,
that the mechanical geniuses said the devil himself could make neither
head nor tail of the confounded mechanism. And a hypothesis that the
Exhibitor was a clever ventriloquist, and gave the answers himself (the
breath being conveyed to the figure's mouth through hidden valves) fell
to the ground, for the Exhibitor was to be heard talking loudly and
distinctly to people among the audience at the very time when the Turk
was making his replies.
"'Notwithstanding the enigmatical, and apparently mysterious, character
of this exhibition, perhaps the interest of the public might soon have
grown fainter, had it not been kept alive by the nature of the answers
which the Turk gave. These were sometimes cold and severe, while
occasionally they were sparkling and jocular--even broadly so at times;
at others they evinced strong sense and deep astuteness, and in some
instances they were in a high degree painful and tragical. But they
were always strikingly apposite to the character and affairs of the
questioner, who would frequently be startled by a mystical reference to
futurity in the answer given, only possible, as it would seem, in one
cognizant of the hidden thoughts and feelings which dictated the
question. And it happened not seldom that the Turk, questioned in
German, would reply in some other language known to the questioner, in
which case it would be found that the answer could not have been
expressed with equal point, force, and conciseness in any other
language than that selected. In short, no day passed without some fresh
instance of a striking and ingenious answer of the wise Turk becoming
the subject of general remark.
"'It chanced, one evening, that Lewis and Ferdinand, two college
friends, were in a company where the talking Turk was the subject of
conversation. People were discussing whether the strangest feature of
the matter was the mysterious and unexplained human influence which
seemed to endow the figure with life, or the wonderful insight into the
individuality of the questioner, or the remarkable talent of the
answers. They were both rather ashamed to confess that they had not
seen the Turk as yet, for it was _de rigueur_ to see him, and every one
had some tale to tell of a wonderful answer to some skilfully devised
question.
"'"All figures of that description," said Lewis, "which can scarcely be
said to counterfeit humanity so much as to travesty it--mere images of
living death or inanimate life are in the highest degree hateful to me.
When I was a little boy, I ran away crying from a waxwork exhibition I
was taken to, and even to this day I never can enter a place of the
sort without a horrible, eerie, shuddery feeling. When I see the
staring, lifeless, glassy eyes of all the potentates, celebrated
heroes, thieves, murderers, and so on, fixed upon me, I feel disposed
to cry with Macbeth
"'"'Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which thou dost glare with.'
And I feel certain that most people experience the same feeling, though
perhaps not to the same extent. For you may notice that scarcely any
one talks, except in a whisper, in those waxwork places. You hardly
ever hear a loud word. But it is not reverence for the Crowned Heads
and other great people that produces this universal pianissimo; it is
the oppressive sense of being in the presence of something unnatural
and gruesome; and what I most of all detest is anything in the shape of
imitation of the motions of Human Beings by machinery. I feel sure this
wonderful, ingenious Turk will haunt me with his rolling eyes, his
turning head, and his waving arm, like some necromantic goblin, when I
lie awake of nights; so that the truth is I should very much prefer not
going to see him. I should be quite satisfied with other people's
accounts of his wit and wisdom."
"'"You know," said Ferdinand, "that I fully agree with you as to the
disagreeable feeling produced by the sight of those imitations of Human
Beings. But they are not all alike as regards that. Much depends on the
workmanship of them, and on what they do. Now there was Ensler's rope
dancer, one of the most perfect automatons I have ever seen. There was
a vigour about his movements which was most effective, and when he
suddenly sat down on his rope, and bowed in an affable manner, he was
utterly delightful. I do not suppose any one ever experienced the
gruesome feeling you speak of in looking at him. As for the Turk, I
consider his case different altogether. The figure (which every one
says is a handsome-looking one, with nothing ludicrous or repulsive
about it) the figure really plays a very subordinate part in the
business, and I think there can be little doubt that the turning of the
head and eyes, and so forth, go on merely that our notice may be
directed to them, for the very reason that it is elsewhere that the key
to the mystery is to be found. That the breath comes out of the
figure's mouth is very likely, perhaps certain; those who have been
there say it does. It by no means follows that this breath is set in
motion by the words which are spoken. There cannot be the smallest
doubt that some human being is so placed as to be able, by means of
acoustical and optical contrivances which we do not trace, to see and
hear the persons who ask questions, and whisper answers back to them;
that not a soul, even amongst our most ingenious mechanicians, has the
slightest inkling, as yet, of the process by which this is done, shows
that it is a remarkably ingenious one; and that, of course, is one
thing which renders the exhibition very interesting. But much the most
wonderful part of it, in my opinion, is the spiritual power of this
unknown human being, who seems to read the very depths of the
questioner's soul; the answers often display an acuteness and sagacity,
and, at the same time, a species of dread half-light, half-darkness,
which do really entitle them to be styled 'oracular' in the highest
sense of the term. Several of my friends have told me instances of the
sort which have fairly astounded me, and I can no longer refrain from
putting the wonderful seer-gift of this unknown person to the test, so
that I intend to go there to-morrow forenoon; and you must lay aside
your repugnance to 'living puppets,' and come with me."
"'Although Lewis did his best to get off, he was obliged to yield, on
pain of being considered eccentric, so many were the entreaties to him
not to spoil a pleasant party by his absence, for a party had been made
up to go the next forenoon, and, so to speak, take the miraculous Turk
by the very beard. They went accordingly, and although there was no
denying that the Turk had an unmistakable air of Oriental _grandezza_,
and that his head was handsome and effective, yet, as soon as Lewis
entered the room, he was struck with a sense of the ludicrous about the
whole affair, and when the Exhibitor put the key to the figure's side,
and the wheels began their whirring, he made some rather silly joke to
his friends about "the Turkish gentleman's having a roasting-jack
inside him." Every one laughed; and the Exhibitor--who did not seem to
appreciate the joke very much--stopped winding up the machinery.
Whether it was that the hilarious mood of the company displeased the
wise Turk, or that he chanced not to be "in the vein" on that
particular day, his replies--though some were to very witty and
ingenious questions--seemed empty and poor; and Lewis, in particular,
had the misfortune to find that he was scarcely ever properly
understood by the oracle, so that he received for the most part crooked
answers. The Exhibitor was clearly out of temper, and the audience were
on the point of going away, ill-pleased and disappointed, when
Ferdinand said--
"'"Gentlemen, we none of us seem to be much satisfied with the wise
Turk, but perhaps we may be partly to blame ourselves, probably our
questions may not have been altogether to his taste; the fact that he
is turning his head round at this moment, and raising his arm" (the
figure was really doing so), "seems to indicate that I am not mistaken.
A question has occurred to me to put to him; and if he gives one of his
apposite answers to it, I think he will have quite redeemed his
character."
"'Ferdinand went up to the Turk, and whispered a word or two in his
ear. The Turk raised his arm as unwilling to answer. Ferdinand
persisted, and then the Turk turned his head towards him.
"'Lewis saw that Ferdinand instantly turned pale; but after a few
seconds he asked another question, to which he got an answer at once.
It was with a most constrained smile that Ferdinand, turning to the
audience, said--
"'"I can assure you, gentlemen, that as far as I am concerned at any
rate, the Turk has redeemed his character. I must beg you to pardon me
if I conceal the question and the answer from you; of course the
secrets of the Oracle may not be divulged."
"'Though Ferdinand strove hard to hide what he felt, it was but too
evident from his efforts to be at ease that he was very deeply moved,
and the cleverest answer could not have produced in the spectators the
strange sensation, amounting to a species of awe, which his
unmistakable emotion gave rise to in them. The fun and the jests were
at an end; hardly another word was spoken, and the audience dispersed
in uneasy silence.
"'"Dear Lewis," said Ferdinand, as soon as they were alone together, "I
must tell you all about this. The Turk has broken my heart; for I
believe I shall never get over the blow he has given me until I do
really die of the fulfilment of his terrible prophecy."
"'Lewis gazed at him in the profoundest amazement; and Ferdinand
continued--
"'"I see, now, that the mysterious being who communicates with us by
the medium of the Turk, has powers at his command which compel our most
secret thoughts with magic might; it may be that this strange
intelligence clearly and distinctly beholds that germ of the future
which fructifies within us in mysterious connection with the outer
world, and is thus cognizant of all that is to come upon us in distant
days, like those persons who are endowed with that unhappy seer-gift
which enables them to predict the hour of death."
"'"You must have put an extraordinary question," Lewis answered; "but I
should think you are tacking on some unduly important meaning to the
Oracle's ambiguous reply. Mere chance, I should imagine, has educed
something which is, by accident, appropriate to your question; and you
are attributing this to the mystic power of the person (most probably
quite an every-day sort of creature) who speaks to us through the
Turk."
"'"What you say," answered Ferdinand, "is quite at variance with all
the conclusions you and I have come to on the subject of what is
ordinarily termed 'chance.' However, you cannot be expected to
comprehend the precise condition in which I am, without my telling you
all about an affair which happened to me some time ago, as to which I
have never breathed a syllable to any one living till now. Several
years ago I was on my way back to B----, from a place a long way off in
East Prussia, belonging to my father. In K----, I met with some young
Courland fellows who were going back to B---- too. We travelled
together in three post carriages; and, as we had plenty of money, and
were all about the time of life when people's spirits are pretty high,
you may imagine the manner of our journey. We were continually playing
the maddest pranks of every kind. I remember that we got to M---- about
noon, and set to work to plunder the landlady's wardrobe. A crowd
collected in front of the inn, and we marched up and down, dressed in
some of her clothes, smoking, till the postilion's horn sounded, and
off we set again. We reached D---- in the highest possible spirits, and
were so delighted with the place and scenery, that we determined to
stay there several days. We made a number of excursions in the
neighbourhood, and so once, when we had been out all day at the
Karlsberg, finding a grand bowl of punch waiting for us on our return,
we dipped into it pretty freely. Although I had not taken more of it
than was good for me, still, I had been in the grand sea-breeze all
day, and I felt all my pulses throbbing, and my blood seemed to rush
through my veins in a stream of fire. When we went to our rooms at
last, I threw myself down on my bed; but, tired as I was, my sleep was
scarcely more than a kind of dreamy, half-conscious condition, in which
I was cognizant of all that was going on about me. I fancied I could
hear soft conversation in the next room, and at last I plainly made out
a male voice saying--
"'"'Well, good night, now; mind and be ready in good time.'
"'"A door opened and closed again, and then came a deep silence; but
this was soon broken by one or two chords of a pianoforte.
"'"You know the magical effect of music sounding in that way in the
stillness of night. I felt as though some beautiful spirit voice was
speaking to me in these chords. I lay listening, expecting something in
the shape of a fantasia--or some such piece of music--to follow; but
fancy what it was when a most gloriously, exquisitely beautiful lady's
voice sang, to a melody that went to one's very heart, the words I am
going to repeat to you--
"'"Mio ben ricordati
S' avvien ch' io mora
Quanto quest' anima
Fedel t' amo;
Lo se pur amano
Le fredde ceneri,
Nel urna ancora
T' adorero'."[3]
"'"How can I ever hope to give you the faintest idea of the effect of
those long-drawn swelling and dying notes upon me. I had never imagined
anything approaching it. The melody was marvellous--quite unlike any
other.
It was, itself, the deep, tender sorrow of the most fervent love. As it
rose in simple phrases, the clear upper notes like crystal bells, and
sank till the rich low tunes died away like the sighs of a despairing
plaint, a rapture which words cannot describe took possession of
me--the pain of a boundless longing seized my heart like a spasm; I
could scarcely breathe, my whole being was merged in an inexpressible,
super-earthly delight. I did not dare to move; could only listen; soul
and body were merged in ear. It was not until the tones had been for
some time silent that tears, coming to my eyes, broke the spell, and
restored me to myself. I suppose that sleep then came upon me, for when
I was roused by the shrill notes of a posthorn, the bright morning sun
was shining into my room, and I found that it had been only in my
dreams that I had been enjoying a bliss more deep, a happiness more
ineffable, than the world could otherwise have afforded me. For a
beautiful lady came to me--it was the lady who had sung the song--and
said to me, very fondly and tenderly--
"'"'Then you _did_ recognize me, my own dear Ferdinand! I knew that I
had only to sing, and I should live again in you wholly, for every note
was sleeping in your heart.'
"'"Then I recognized, with rapture unspeakable, that she was the
beloved of my soul, whose image had been enshrined in my heart since
childhood. Though an adverse fate had torn her from me for a time, I
had found her again now; but my deep and fervent love for her melted
into that wonderful melody of sorrow, and our words and our looks grew
into exquisite swelling tones of music, flowing together into a river
of fire. Now, however, that I had awakened from this beautiful dream, I
was obliged to confess to myself that I could trace no association of
former days connected with it. I never had seen the beautiful lady
before.
"'"I heard some one talking loudly and angrily in front of the house, and
rising mechanically, I went to the window. An elderly gentleman, well
dressed, was rating the postilion, who had damaged something about an
elegant travelling carriage; at last this was put to rights, and the
gentleman called upstairs to some one, 'We're all ready now; come
along, it's time to be off.' I found that there had been a young lady
looking out of the window next to mine; but as she drew quickly back,
and had on a broad travelling hat, I did not see her face; when she
went out, she turned round and looked up at me. Heavens! she was the
singer! she was the lady of my dream! For a moment her beautiful eyes
rested upon me, and the beam of a crystal tone seemed to pierce my
heart like the point of a burning dagger, so that I felt an actual
physical smart: all my members trembled, and I was transfixed with an
indescribable bliss. She got quickly into the carriage, the postilion
blew a cheerful tune as if in jubilant defiance, and in a moment they
had disappeared round the corner of the street. I remained at the
window like a man in a dream. My Courland friends came in to fetch me
for an excursion which had been arranged: I never spoke; they thought I
was ill. How could I have uttered a single word connected with what had
occurred? I abstained from making any inquiries in the hotel about the
occupants of the room next to mine; I felt that every word relating to
her uttered by any lips but mine would be a desecration of my tender
secret. I resolved to keep it always faithfully from thenceforth, to
bear it about with me always, and to be for ever true to her--my only
love for evermore--although I might never see her again. You can quite
understand my feelings. I know you will not blame me for having
immediately given up everybody and everything but the most eager search
for the very slightest trace of my unknown love. My jovial Courland
friends were now perfectly unendurable to me; I slipped away from them
quietly in the night, and was off as fast as I could travel to B----,
to go on with my work there. You know I was always pretty good at
drawing. Well, in B---- I took lessons in miniature painting from good
masters, and got on so well that in a short time I was able to carry
out the idea which had set me on this tack--to paint a portrait of her,
as like as it could be made. I worked at it secretly, with locked
doors. No human eye has ever seen it; for I had another picture the
exact size of it framed, and put her portrait into the frame instead of
it, myself. Ever since, I have worn it next my heart.
"'"I have never mentioned this affair--much the most important event in
my life--until to-day; and you are the only creature in the world,
Lewis, to whom I have breathed a word of my secret. Yet this very day a
hostile influence--I know not whence or what--comes piercing into my
heart and life! When I went up to the Turk, I asked--thinking of my
beloved--
"'"'Will there ever be a time again for me like that which was the
happiest in my life?'
"'"The Turk was most unwilling to answer me, as I daresay you observed;
but at last, as I persisted, he said--
"'"'I am looking into your breast; but the glitter of the gold, which
is towards me, distracts me. Turn the picture round.'
"'"Have I words for the feeling which went shuddering through me? I am
sure you must have seen how I was startled. The picture was really
placed on my breast in the way the Turk had said; I turned it round,
unobserved, and repeated my question. Then the figure said, in a
sorrowful tone--
"'"'Unhappy man! At the very moment when next you see her, she will be
lost to you for ever!'"
"'Lewis was about to try to cheer his friend, who had fallen into a
deep reverie, but some mutual acquaintances came in, and they were
interrupted.
"'The story of this fresh instance of a mysterious answer by the Turk
spread in the town, and people busied themselves in conjectures as to
the unfavourable prophecy which had so upset the unprejudiced
Ferdinand. His friends were besieged with questions, and Lewis had to
invent a marvellous tale, which had all the more universal a success
that it was remote from the truth. The coterie of people with whom
Ferdinand had been induced to go and see the Turk was in the habit of
meeting once a week, and at their next meeting the Turk was necessarily
the topic of conversation, as efforts were continually being made to
obtain, from Ferdinand himself, full particulars of an adventure which
had thrown him into such an evident despondency. Lewis felt most deeply
how bitter a blow it was to Ferdinand to find the secret of his
romantic love, preserved so long and faithfully, penetrated by a
fearful, unknown power; and he, like Ferdinand, was almost convinced
that the mysterious link which attaches the present to the future must
be clear to the vision of that power to which the most hidden secrets
were thus manifest. Lewis could not help believing the Oracle; but the
malevolence, the relentlessness with which the misfortune impending
over his friend had been announced, made him indignant with the
undiscovered Being which spoke by the mouth of the Turk, so that he
placed himself in persistent opposition to the Automaton's many
admirers; and whilst they considered that there was much impressiveness
about its most natural movements, enhancing the effect of its oracular
sayings, he maintained that it was those very turnings of the head and
rollings of the eyes which he considered so absurd, and that this was
the reason why he could not help making a joke on the subject; a joke
which had put the Exhibitor out of temper, and probably the invisible
agent as well. Indeed the latter had shown that this was so by giving a
number of stupid and unmeaning answers.
"'"I must tell you," said Lewis, "that the moment I went into the room
the figure reminded me of a most delightful Nutcracker which a cousin
of mine once gave me at Christmas time when I was a little boy. The
little fellow had the gravest and most comical face ever seen, and when
he had a hard nut to crack there was some arrangement inside him which
made him roll his great eyes, which projected far out of his head, and
this gave him such an absurdly life-like effect that I could play with
him for hours; in fact, in my secret soul, I almost thought he was
real. All the marionettes I have seen since then, however perfect, I
have thought stiff and lifeless compared to my glorious Nutcracker. I
had heard much of some wonderful automatons in the Arsenal at Dantzig,
and I took care to go and see them when I was there some years ago.
Soon after I got into the place where they were, an old-fashioned
German soldier came marching up to me, and fired off his musket with
such a bang that the great vaulted hall rang again. There were other
similar tricks which I forget about now; but at length I was taken into
a room where I found the God of War--the terrible Mars himself--with
all his suite. He was seated, in a rather grotesque dress, on a throne
ornamented with arms of all sorts; heralds and warriors were standing
round him. As soon as we came before the throne, a set of drummers
began to roll their drums, and lifers blew on their fifes in the most
horrible way--all out of tune--so that one had to put one's fingers in
one's ears. My remark was that the God of War was very badly off for a
band, and every one agreed with me. The drums and fifes stopped; the
heralds began to turn their heads about, and stamp with their halberds,
and finally the God of War, after rolling his eyes for a time, started
up from his seat, and seemed to be coming straight at us. However, he
soon sank back on his throne again, and after a little more drumming
and fifing, everything reverted to its state of wooden repose. As I
came away from seeing these automatons, I said to myself, 'Nothing like
my Nutcracker!' And now that I have seen the sage Turk, I say again,
'Give me my Nutcracker.'
"'"People laughed at this, of course; though it was believed to be
'more jest than earnest,' for, to say nothing of the remarkable
cleverness of many of the Turk's answers, the indiscoverable connection
between him and the hidden Being who, besides speaking through him,
must produce the movements which accompanied his answers, was
unquestionably very wonderful, at all events a masterpiece of
mechanical and acoustical skill."
"'Lewis was himself obliged to admit this; and every one was extolling
the inventor of the automaton, when an elderly gentleman who, as a
general rule, spoke very little, and had been taking no part in the
conversation on the present occasion, rose from his chair (as he was in
the habit of doing when he did finally say a few words, always greatly
to the point) and began, in his usual polite manner, as follows--
"'"Will you be good enough to allow me, gentlemen--I beg you to pardon
me. You have reason to admire the curious work of art which has been
interesting us all for so long; but you are wrong in supposing the
commonplace person who exhibits it to be the inventor of it. The truth
is that he really has no hand at all in what are the truly remarkable
features of it. The originator of them is a gentleman highly skilled in
matters of the kind--one who lives amongst us, and has done so for many
years--whom we all know very well, and greatly respect and esteem."
"'Universal surprise was created by this, and the elderly gentleman was
besieged with questions, on which he continued;
"'"The gentleman to whom I allude is none other than Professor X----.
The Turk had been here a couple of days, and nobody had taken any
particular notice of him, though Professor X--- took care to go and see
him at once, because everything in the shape of an Automaton interests
him in the highest degree. When he had heard one or two of the Turk's
answers, he took the Exhibitor apart and whispered a word or two in his
ear. The man turned pale, and shut up his exhibition as soon as the two
or three people who were then in the room had gone away. The bills
disappeared from the walls, and nothing more was heard of the Talking
Turk for a fortnight. Then new bills came out, and the Turk was found
with the fine new head, and all the other arrangements as they are at
present--an unsolvable riddle. It is since that time that his answers
have been so clever and so interesting. But that all this is the work
of Professor X---- admits of no question. The Exhibitor, in the
interval, when the figure was not being exhibited, spent all his time
with him. Also it is well known that the Professor passed several days
in succession in the room where the figure is. Besides, gentlemen, you
are no doubt aware that the Professor himself possesses a number of
most extraordinary automatons, chiefly musical, which he has long vied
with Hofrath B---- in producing, keeping up with him a correspondence
concerning all sorts of mechanical, and, people say, even _magical_
arts and pursuits, and that, did he but choose, he could astonish the
world with them. But he works in complete privacy, although he is
always ready to show his extraordinary inventions to all who take a
real interest in such matters."
"'It was, in fact, matter of notoriety that this Professor X----, whose
principal pursuits were natural philosophy and chemistry, delighted,
next to them, in occupying himself with mechanical research; but no one
in the assemblage had had the slightest idea that he had had any
connection with the "Talking Turk," and it was from the merest hearsay
that people knew anything concerning the curiosities which the old
gentleman had referred to. Ferdinand and Lewis felt strangely and
vividly impressed by the old gentleman's account of Professor X----,
and the influence which he had brought to bear on that strange
automaton.
"'"I cannot hide from you," said Ferdinand, "that a hope is dawning
upon me that, if I get nearer to this Professor X----, I may, perhaps,
come upon a clue to the mystery which is weighing so terribly upon me
at present. And it is possible that the true significance and import of
the relations which exist between the Turk (or rather the hidden entity
which employs him as the organ of its oracular utterances) and myself
might, could I get to comprehend it, perhaps comfort me, and weaken the
impression of those words, for me so terrible. I have made up my mind
to make the acquaintance of this mysterious man, on the pretext of
seeing his automatons; and as they are musical ones, it will not be
devoid of interest for you to come with me."
"'"As if it were not sufficient for me," said Lewis, "to be able to aid
you, in your necessity, with counsel and help! But I cannot deny that
even to-day, when the old gentleman was mentioning Professor X----'s
connection with the Turk, strange ideas came into my mind; although
perhaps I am going a long way about in search of what lies close at
hand, could one but see it. For instance, to look as close at hand as
possible for the solution of the mystery, may it not be the case that
the invisible being knew that you wore the picture next your heart, so
that a mere lucky guess might account for the rest? Perhaps it was
taking its revenge upon you for the rather uncourteous style in which
we were joking about the Turk's wisdom."
"'"Not one human soul," Ferdinand answered, "has ever set eyes on the
picture; this I told you before. And I have never told any creature but
yourself of the adventure which has had such an immensely important
influence on my whole life. It is an utter impossibility that the Turk
can have got to know of this in any ordinary manner. Much more
probably, what you say you are 'going a long roundabout way' in search
of may be much nearer the truth."
"'"Well then," said Lewis, "what I mean is this; that this automaton,
strongly as I appeared to-day to assert the contrary, is really one of
the most extraordinary phenomena ever beheld, and that everything goes
to prove that whoever controls and directs it has at his command higher
powers than is supposed by those who go there simply to gape at things,
and do no more than wonder at what is wonderful. The figure is nothing
more than the outward form of the communication; but that form has been
cleverly selected, as such, since the shape, appearance, and movements
of it are well adapted to occupy the attention in a manner favourable
for the preservation of the secret, and, particularly, to work upon the
questioners favourably as regards the intelligence, whatsoever it is,
which gives the answers. There cannot be any human being concealed
inside the figure; that is as good as proved, so that it is clearly the
result of some acoustic deception that we think the answers come from
the Turk's mouth. But how this is accomplished--how the Being who gives
the answers is placed in a position to hear the questions and see the
questioners, and at the same time to be audible by them--certainly
remains a complete mystery to me. Of course all this merely implies
great acoustic and mechanical skill on the part of the inventor, and
remarkable acuteness, or, I might say, systematic craftiness, in
leaving no stone unturned in the process of deceiving us. And I admit
that this part of the riddle interests me the less, inasmuch as it
falls completely into the shade in comparison with the circumstance
(which, is the only part of the affair which is so extraordinarily
remarkable) that the Turk often reads the very soul of the questioner.
How, if it were possible to this Being which gives the answers, to
acquire by some process unknown to us, a psychic influence over us, and
to place itself in a spiritual _rapport_ with us, so that it can
comprehend and read our minds and thoughts, and more than that, have
cognizance of our whole inner being; so that, if it does not clearly
speak out the secrets which are lying dormant within us, it does yet
evoke and call forth, in a species of _extasis_ induced by its
_rapport_ with the exterior spiritual principle, the suggestions, the
outlines, the shadowings of all which is reposing within our breasts,
clearly seen by the eye of the spirit, in brightest illumination! On
this assumption the psychical power would strike the strings within us,
so as to make them give forth a clear and vibrating chord, audible to
us, and intelligible by us, instead of merely murmuring, as they do at
other times; so that it is we who answer our own selves; the voice
which we hear is produced from within ourselves by the operation of
this unknown spiritual power, and vague presentiments and anticipations
of the future brighten into spoken prognostications--just as, in
dreams, we often find that a voice, unfamiliar to us, tells us of
things which we do not know, or as to which we are in doubt, being, in
reality, a voice proceeding from ourselves, although it seems to convey
to us knowledge which previously we did not possess. No doubt the Turk
(that is to say, the hidden power which is connected with him) seldom
finds it necessary to place himself _en rapport_ with people in this
way. Hundreds of them can be dealt with in the cursory, superficial
manner adapted to their queries and characters, and it is seldom that a
question is put which calls for the exercise of anything besides ready
wit. But by any strained or exalted condition of the questioner the
Turk would be affected in quite a different way, and he would then
employ those means which render possible the production of a psychic
_rapport_, giving him the power to answer from out of the inner depths
of the questioner. His hesitation in replying to deep questions of this
kind may be due to the delay which he grants himself to gain a few
moments for the bringing into play of the power in question. This is my
true and genuine opinion; and you see that I have not that contemptuous
notion of this work of art (or whatever may be the proper term to apply
to it) that I would have had you believe I had. But I do not wish to
conceal anything from you; though I see that if you adopt my idea, I
shall not have given you any real comfort at all."
"'"You are wrong there, dear friend," said Ferdinand. "The very fact
that your opinion does chime in with a vague notion which I felt,
dimly, in my own mind, comforts me very much. It is only myself that I
have to take into account; my precious secret is not discovered, for 1
know that you will guard it as a sacred treasure. And, by-the-bye, I
must tell you of a most extraordinary feature of the matter, which I
had forgotten till now. Just as the Turk was speaking his latter words,
I fancied that I heard one or two broken phrases of the sorrowful
melody, '_mio ben ricordati_,' and then it seemed to me that one
single, long-drawn note of the glorious voice which I heard on that
eventful night went floating by."
"'"Well," said Lewis, "and I remember, too, that, just as your answer
was being given to you, I happened to place my hand on the railing
which surrounds the figure. I felt it thrill and vibrate in my hand,
and I fancied also that I could hear a kind of musical sound, for I
cannot say it was a vocal note, passing across the room. I paid no
attention to it, because, as you know, my head is always full of music,
and I have several times been wonderfully deceived in a similar way;
but I was very much astonished, in my own mind, when I traced the
mysterious connection between that sound and your adventure in D----."
"'The fact that Lewis had heard the sound as well as himself, was to
Ferdinand a proof of the psychic _rapport_ which existed between them;
and as they further diseased the marvels of the affair, he began to
feel the heavy burden which had weighed upon him since he heard the
fatal answer lifted away, and was ready to go forward bravely to meet
whatsoever the future might have in store.
"'"It is impossible that I can lose her," he said. "She is my heart's
queen, and will always be there, as long as my own life endures."
"'They went and called on Professor X----, in high hope that he would
be able to throw light on many questions relating to occult sympathies
and the like, in which they were deeply interested. They found him to
be an old man, dressed in old-fashioned French style, exceedingly keen
and lively, with small grey eyes which had an unpleasant way of fixing
themselves on one, and a sarcastic simile, not very attractive,
playing about his mouth.
"'When they had expressed their wish to see some of his automatons, he
said, "Ah! and you really take an interest in mechanical matters, do
you? Perhaps you have done something in that direction yourselves?
Well, I can show you, in this house here, what you will look for in
vain in the rest of Europe: I may say, in the known world."
"'There was something most unpleasant about the Professor's voice; it
was a high-pitched, screaming sort of discordant tenor, exactly suited
to the mountebank tone in which he proclaimed his treasures. He fetched
his keys with a great clatter, and opened the door of a tastefully and
elegantly furnished hall, where the automatons were. There was a piano
in the middle of the loom, on a raised platform; beside it, on the
right, a life-sized figure of a man, with a flute in his hand; on the
left, a female figure, seated at an instrument somewhat resembling a
piano; behind her were two boys, with a drum and a triangle. In the
background our two friends noticed an orchestrion (which was an
instrument already known to them), and all round the walls were a
number of musical clocks. The Professor passed, in a cursory manner,
close by the orchestrion and the clocks, and just touched the
automatons, almost imperceptibly; then he sat down at the piano, and
began to play, _pianissimo_, an _andante_ in the style of a march. He
played it once through by himself; and as he commenced it for the
second time the flute-player put his instrument to his lips, and took
up the melody; then one of the boys drummed softly on his drum in the
most accurate time, and the other just touched his triangle, so that
you could hear it and no more. Presently the lady came in with full
chords, of a sound something like those of a harmonica, which she
produced by pressing down the keys of her instrument; and now the whole
room kept growing more and more alive; the musical clocks came in one
by one, with the utmost rhythmical precision; the boy drummed louder;
the triangle rang through the room, and lastly the orchestrion set to
work, and drummed and trumpeted _fortissimo_, so that the whole place
shook again; and this went on till the Professor wound up the whole
business with one final chord, all the machines finishing also, with
the utmost precision. Our friends bestowed the applause which the
Professor's complacent smile (with its undercurrent of sarcasm) seemed
to demand of them. He went up to the figures to set about exhibiting
some further similar musical feats; but Lewis and Ferdinand, as if by a
preconcerted arrangement, declared that they had pressing business
which prevented their making a longer stay, and took their leave of the
inventor and his machines.
"'"Most interesting and ingenious, wasn't it?" said Ferdinand; but
Lewis's anger, long restrained, broke out.
"'"Oh! confusion on that wretched Professor!" he cried. "What a
terrible, terrible disappointment! Where are all the revelations we
expected? What became of the learned, instructive discourse which we
thought he would deliver to us, as to disciples at Sais?"
"'"At the same time," said Ferdinand, "we have seen some very ingenious
mechanical inventions, curious and interesting from a musical point of
view. Clearly, the flute-player is the same as Vaucanson's well-known
machine; and a similar mechanism applied to the fingers of the female
figure is, I suppose, what enables her to bring out those really
beautiful tones from her instrument. The way in which all the machines
work together is really astonishing."
"'"It is exactly that which drives me so wild," said Lewis. "All that
machine-music (in which I include the Professor's own playing) makes
every bone in my body ache. I am sure I do not know when I shall get
over it! The fact of any human being's doing anything in association
with those lifeless figures which counterfeit the appearance and
movements of humanity has always, to me, something fearful, unnatural,
T may say terrible, about it. I suppose it would be possible, by means
of certain mechanical arrangements inside them, to construct automatons
which should dance, and then to set them to dance with human beings,
and twist and turn about in all sorts of figures; so that we should
have a living man putting his arms about a lifeless partner of wood,
and whirling round and round with her, or rather it. Could you look at
such a sight, for an instant, without horror? At all events, all
machine-music is to me a thing altogether monstrous and abominable; and
a good stocking-loom is, in my opinion, worth all the most perfect and
ingenious musical clocks in the universe put together. For is it the
breath, merely, of the performer on a wind-instrument, or the skilful,
supple fingers of the performer on a stringed instrument, which evoke
those tones which lay upon us a spell of such power, and awaken that
inexpressible feeling, akin to nothing else on earth, the sense of a
distant spirit world, and of our own higher life therein? Is it not,
rather, the mind, the soul, the heart, which merely employ those bodily
organs to give forth into our external life that which is felt in our
inner depths? so that it can be communicated to others, and awaken
kindred chords in them, opening, in harmonious echoes, that marvellous
kingdom from whence those tones come darting, like beams of light? To
set to work to make music by means of valves, springs, levers,
cylinders, or whatever other apparatus you choose to employ, is a
senseless attempt to make the means to an end accomplish what can
result only when those means are animated and, in their minutest
movements, controlled by the mind, the soul, and the heart. The gravest
reproach you can make to a musician is that he plays without
expression; because, by so doing, he is marring the whole essence of
the matter. Yet the coldest and most unfeeling executant will always be
far in advance of the most perfect of machines. For it is impossible
that no impulse whatever, from the inner man shall ever, even for a
moment, animate his rendering; whereas, in the case of a machine, no
such impulse can ever do so. The attempts of mechanicians to imitate,
with more or less approximation to accuracy, the human organs in the
production of musical sounds, or to substitute mechanical appliances
for those organs, I consider tantamount to a declaration of war against
the spiritual element in music; but the greater the forces they array
against it, the more victorious it is. For this very reason, the more
perfect that this sort of machinery is, the more I disapprove of it;
and I infinitely prefer the commonest barrel-organ, in which the
mechanism attempts nothing but to be mechanical, to Vaucauson's
flute-player, or the harmonica girl.
"'"I entirely agree with you," said Ferdinand, "and indeed you have
merely put into words what I have always thought; and I was much struck
with it to-day at the Professor's. Although I do not so wholly live and
move and have my being in music as you do, and consequently am not so
sensitively alive to imperfections in it, I, too, have always felt a
repugnance to the stiffness and lifelessness of machine-music; and, I
can remember, when I was a child at home, how I detested a large,
ordinary musical clock, which played its little tune every hour. It is
a pity that those skilful mechanicians do not try to apply their
knowledge to the improvement of musical instruments, rather than to
puerilities of this sort."
"'"Exactly," said Lewis. "Now, in the case of instruments of the
keyboard class a great deal might be done. There is a wide field open
in that direction to clever mechanical people, much as has been
accomplished already; particularly in instruments of the pianoforte
genus. But it would be the task of a really advanced system of the
'mechanics of music' to closely observe, minutely study, and carefully
discover that class of sounds which belong, most purely and strictly,
to Nature herself, to obtain a knowledge of the tones which dwell in
substances of every description, and then to take this mysterious music
and enclose it in some description of instrument, where it should be
subject to man's will, and give itself forth at his touch. All the
attempts to bring music out of metal or glass cylinders, glass threads,
slips of glass, or pieces of marble; or to cause strings to vibrate or
sound, in ways unlike the ordinary ways, seem to me to be interesting
in the highest degree: and what stands in the way of our real progress
in the discovery of the marvellous acoustical secrets which lie hidden
all around us in nature is, that every imperfect attempt at an
experiment is at once held up to laudation as being a new and utterly
perfect invention, either for vanity's sake, or for money's. This is
why so many new instruments have started into existence--most of them
with grand or ridiculous names--and have disappeared and been forgotten
just as quickly."
"'"Your 'higher mechanics of music' seems to be a most interesting
subject," said Ferdinand, "although, for my part, I do not as yet quite
perceive the object at which it aims."
"'"The object at which it aims," said Lewis, "is the discovery of the
most absolutely perfect kind of musical sound; and according to my
theory, musical sound would be the nearer to perfection the more
closely it approximated to such of the mysterious tones of nature as
are not wholly dissociated from this earth."
"'"I presume," said Ferdinand, "that it is because I have not
penetrated so deeply into this subject as you have, but you must allow
me to say that I do not quite understand you."
"'"Then," said Lewis, "let me give you some sort of an idea how it is
that all this question exhibits itself to my mind.
"'"In the primeval condition of the human race, while (to make use of
almost the very words of a talented writer--Schubert--in his 'Glimpses
at the Night Side of Natural Science') mankind as yet was dwelling in
its pristine holy harmony with nature, richly endowed with a heavenly
instinct of prophecy and poetry; while, as yet, Mother Nature continued
to nourish from the fount of her own life, the wondrous being to whom
she had given birth, she encompassed him with a holy music, like the
afflatus of a continual inspiration; and wondrous tones spake of the
mysteries of her unceasing activity. There has come down to us an echo
from the mysterious depths of those primeval days--that beautiful
notion of the music of the spheres, which, when as a boy, I first read
of it in 'The Dream of Scipio,' filled me with the deepest and most
devout reverence. I often used to listen, on quiet moonlight nights, to
hear if those wondrous tones would come to me, borne on the wings
of the whispering airs. However, as I said to you already, those
nature-tones have not yet all departed from this world, fur we have an
instance of their survival, and occurrence in that 'Music of the Air'
or 'Voice of the Demon,' mentioned by a writer on Ceylon--a sound
which so powerfully affects the human system, that even the least
impressionable persons, when they hear those tones of nature imitating,
in such a terrible manner, the expression of human sorrow and
suffering, are struck with painful compassion and profound terror!
Indeed, I once met with an instance of a phenomenon of a similar kind
myself, at a place in East Prussia. I had been living there for some
time; it was about the end of autumn, when, on quiet nights, with a
moderate breeze blowing, I used distinctly to hear tones, sometimes
resembling the deep, stopped, pedal pipe of an organ, and sometimes
like the vibrations from a deep, soft-toned bell. I often
distinguished, quite clearly, the low F, and the fifth above it (the
C), and not seldom the minor third above, E flat, was perceptible as
well; and then this tremendous chord of the seventh, so woeful and so
solemn, produced on one the effect of the most intense sorrow, and even
of terror!
"'"There is, about the imperceptible commencement, the swelling and the
gradual dying of those nature-tones a something which has a most
powerful and indescribable effect upon us; and any instrument which
should be capable of producing this would, no doubt, affect us in a
similar way. So that I think the harmonica comes the nearest, as
regards its tone, to that perfection, which is to be measured by its
influence on our minds. And it is fortunate that this instrument (which
chances to be the very one which imitates those nature-tones with such
exactitude) happens to be just the very one which is incapable of
lending itself to frivolity or ostentation, but exhibits its
characteristic qualities in the purest of simplicity. The recently
invented 'harmonichord' will doubtless accomplish much in this
direction. This instrument, as you no doubt know, sets strings
a-vibrating and a-toning (not bells, as in the harmonica) by means of
mechanism, which is set in motion by the pressing down of keys, and the
rotation of a cylinder. The performer has, under his control, the
commencement, the swelling out, and the diminishing, of the tones
much more than is the case with the harmonica, though as yet the
harmonichord has not the tone of the harmonica, which sounds as if it
came straight from another world."
"'"I have heard that instrument," said Ferdinand, "and certainly the
tone of it went to the very depths of my being, although I thought the
performer was doing it scant justice. As regards the rest, I think I
quite understand you, although I do not, as yet, quite see into the
closeness of the connection between those 'nature-tones' and music."
"'Lewis answered--"Can the music which dwells within us be any other
than that which lies buried in nature as a profound mystery,
comprehensible only by the inner, higher sense, uttered by instruments,
as the organs of it, merely in obedience to a mighty spell, of which we
are the masters? But, in the purely psychical action and operation of
the spirit--that is to say, in dreams--this spell is broken; and then,
in the tones of familiar instruments, we are enabled to recognise those
nature-tones as wondrously engendered in the air, they come floating
down to us, and swell and die away."
"'"I think of the Æolian harp," said Ferdinand. "What is your opinion
about that ingenious invention?"
"'"Every attempt," said Lewis, "to tempt Nature to give forth her tones
is glorious, and highly worthy of attention. Only, it seems to me that,
as yet, we have only offered her trifling toys, which she has often
shattered to pieces in her indignation. Much grander idea than all
those playthings (like Æolian harps) was the 'storm harp' which I have
read of. It was made of thick chords of wire, which were stretched out
at considerable distances apart, in the open country, and gave forth
great, powerful chords when the wind smote upon them.
"'"Altogether, there is still a wide field open to thoughtful inventors
in this direction, and I quite believe that the impulse recently given
to natural science in general will be perceptible in this branch of it,
and bring into practical existence much which is, as yet, nothing but
speculation."
"Just at this moment there came suddenly floating through the air an
extraordinary sound, which, as it swelled and became more
distinguishable, seemed to resemble the tone of a harmonica. Lewis and
Ferdinand stood rooted to the spot in amazement, not unmixed with awe;
the tones took the form of a profoundly sorrowful melody sung by a
female voice. Ferdinand grasped Lewis by the hand, whilst the latter
whisperingly repeated the words,
"'"Mio ben, ricordati, s' avvien ch' io mora."
"'At the time when this occurred they were outside of the town, and
before the entrance to a garden which was surrounded by lofty trees and
tall hedges. There was a pretty little girl--whom they had not observed
before--sitting playing in the grass near them, and she sprang up
crying, "Oh, how beautifully my sister is singing again! I must take
her some flowers, for she always sings sweeter and longer when she sees
a beautiful carnation." And with that she gathered a bunch of flowers,
and went skipping into the garden with it, leaving the gate ajar, so
that our friends could see through it. What was their astonishment to
see Professor X---- standing in the middle of the garden, beneath a
lofty ash-tree! Instead of the repellant grin of irony with which he
had received them at his house, his face wore an expression of deep
melancholy earnestness, and his gaze was fixed upon the heavens, as if
he were contemplating that world beyond the skies, whereof those
marvellous tones, floating in the air like the breath of a zephyr, were
telling. He walked up and down the central alley, with slow and
measured steps; and, as he passed along, everything around him seemed
to waken into life and movement. In every direction crystal tones came
scintillating out of the dark bushes and trees, and, streaming through
the air like flame, united in a wondrous concert, penetrating the
inmost heart, and waking in the soul the most rapturous emotions of a
higher world. Twilight was falling fast; the Professor disappeared
among the hedges, and the tones died away in _pianissimo_. At length
our friends went back to the town in profound silence; but, as Lewis
was about to quit Ferdinand, the latter clasped him firmly, saying--
"'"Be true to me! Do not abandon me! I feel, too clearly, some hostile
foreign influence at work upon my whole existence, smiting upon all its
hidden strings, and making them resound at its pleasure. I am helpless
to resist it, though it should drive me to my destruction! Can that
diabolical, sneering irony, with which the Professor received us at his
house, have been anything other than the expression of this hostile
principle? Was it with any other intention than that of getting his
hands washed of me for ever, that he fobbed us off with those
automatons of his?"
"'"You are very probably right," said Lewis; "for I have a strong
suspicion myself that, in some manner which is as yet an utter riddle
to me, the Professor does exercise some sort of power or influence over
your fate, or, I should rather say, over that mysterious psychical
relationship, or affinity, which exists between you and this lady. It
may be that, being mixed up in some way with this affinity, in his
character of an element hostile to it, he strengthens it by the very
fact that he opposes it: and it may also be that that which renders you
so extremely unacceptable to him is the circumstance that your presence
awakens, and sets into lively movement all the strings and chords of
this mutually sympathetic condition, and this contrary to his desire,
and, very probably, in opposition to some conventional family
arrangement."
"'Our friends determined to leave no stone unturned in their efforts to
make a closer approach to the Professor, with the hope that they might
succeed, sooner or later, in clearing up this mystery which so affected
Ferdinand's destiny and fate, and they were to have paid him a visit on
the following morning as a preliminary step. However, a letter, which
Ferdinand unexpectedly received from his father, summoned him to B----;
it was impossible for him to permit himself the smallest delay, and in
a few hours he was off, as fast as post-horses could convey him,
assuring Lewis, as he started, that nothing should prevent his return
in a fortnight, at the very furthest.
"'It struck Lewis as a singular circumstance that, soon after
Ferdinand's departure, the same old gentleman who had at first spoken
of the Professor's connection with "the Talking Turk," took an
opportunity of enlarging to him on the fact that X----'s mechanical
inventions were simply the result of an extreme enthusiasm for
mechanical pursuits, and of deep and searching investigations in
natural science; he also more particularly lauded the Professor's
wonderful discoveries in music, which, he said, he had not as yet
communicated to any one, adding that his mysterious laboratory was a
pretty garden outside the town, and that passers by had often heard
wondrous tones and melodies there, just as if the whole place were
peopled by fays and spirits.
"'The fortnight elapsed, but Ferdinand did not come back. At length,
when two months had gone by, a letter came from him to the following
effect--
"'"Read and marvel; though you will learn only that which, perhaps, you
strongly suspected would be the case, when you got to know more of the
Professor--as I hope you did. As the horses were being changed in the
village of P----, I was standing, gazing into the distance, not
thinking specially of anything in particular. A carriage drove by, and
stopped at the church, which was open. A young lady, simply dressed,
stepped out of the carriage, followed by a young gentleman in a Russian
Jaeger uniform, wearing several decorations; two gentlemen got down
from a second carriage. The innkeeper said, 'Oh, this is the stranger
couple our clergyman is marrying to-day.' Mechanically I went into the
church, just as the clergyman was concluding the service with the
blessing. I looked at the couple--the bride was my sweet singer. She
looked at me, turned pale, and fainted. The gentleman who was behind
her caught her in his arms. It was Professor X----. What happened
further I do not know, nor have I any recollection as to how I got
here; probably Professor X---- can tell you all about it. But a peace
and a happiness, such as I have never known before, have now taken
possession of my soul. The mysterious prophecy of the Turk was a cursed
falsehood, a mere result of blind groping with unskilful antennæ. Have
I lost her? Is she not mine for ever in the glowing inner life?
"'"It will be long ere you hear of me, for I am going on to K----, and
perhaps to the extreme north, as far as P----."
"'Lewis gathered the distracted condition of his friend's mind, only
too plainly, from his language, and the whole affair became the greater
a riddle to him when he ascertained that it was matter of certainty
that Professor X---- had not quitted the town.
"'"How," thought he, "if all this be but a result of the conflict of
mysterious psychical relations (existing, perhaps, between several
people) making their way out into everyday life, and involving in their
circle even outward events, independent of them, so that the deluded
inner sense looks upon them as phenomena proceeding unconditionally
from itself, and believes in them accordingly? It may be that the
hopeful anticipation which I feel within me will be realised--for my
friend's consolation. For the Turk's mysterious prophecy is fulfilled,
and perhaps, through that very fulfilment, the mortal blow which
menaced my friend is averted."'"
"Well," said Ottmar, as Theodore came to a sudden stop, "is that all?
Where is the explanation? What became of Ferdinand, the beautiful
singer, Professor X----, and the Russian officer?"
"You know," said Theodore, "that I told you at the beginning that I was
only going to read you a fragment, and I consider that the story of the
Talking Turk _is_ only of a fragmentary character, essentially. I mean,
that the imagination of the reader, or listener, should merely receive
one or two more or less powerful impulses, and then go on swinging,
pendulum-like, of its own accord, as it chooses. But if you, Ottmar,
are really anxious to have your mind set at rest over Ferdinand's
future condition, remember the dialogue on opera which I read to you
some time since. This is the same Ferdinand who appears therein, sound
of mind and body; in the 'Talking Turk' he is at an earlier stage of
his career. So that probably his somnambulistic love-affair ended
satisfactorily enough."
"To which," said Ottmar, "has to be added that our Theodore used, at
one time, to take a wonderful delight in exciting people's imaginations
by means of the most extraordinary--nay, wild and insane--stories, and
then suddenly break them off. Not only this, but everything he did, at
that time, assumed a fragmentary form. He read second volumes only, not
troubling himself about the firsts or thirds; saw only the second and
third acts of plays; and so on."
"And," said Theodore, "that inclination I still have; to this hour
nothing is so distasteful to me as when, in a story or a novel, the
stage on which the imaginary world has been in action comes to be swept
so clean by the historic besom that there is not the smallest grain or
particle of dust left on it; when one goes home so completely sated and
satisfied that one has not the faintest desire left to have another
peep behind the curtain. On the other hand, many a fragment of a clever
story sinks deep into my soul, and the continuance of the play of my
imagination, as it goes along on its own swing, gives me an enduring
pleasure. Who has not felt this over Goethe's 'Nut-brown Maid'! And,
above all, his fragment of that most delightful tale of the little lady
whom the traveller always carried about with him in a little box always
exercises an indescribable charm upon me."
"Enough," interrupted Lothair. "We are not to hear any more about the
Talking Turk, and the story was really all told, after all. So let
Ottmar begin without more ado."
Ottmar took out his manuscript, and read:
"'THE DOGE AND THE DOGARESSA.
"'This was the title given in the catalogue of the works exhibited at
the Berlin Academy, in September, 1816, to a picture by that admirable
painter C. Kolbe, which attracted every one with such an irresistible
charm, that the space before it was always crowded with admirers. A
doge, in rich robes of state, with his dogaressa, equally richly
attired, were represented pacing forward on a balustraded balcony; he
an old man with grey beard, strangely mingled traits in his brown-red
face, indicative of strength, weakness, pride, and arrogance, as well
as kindliness; she, a young creature, with longing sadness and dreamy
desirings in her looks, and in the entire expression of her figure.
Behind them, an elderly lady, and a man holding a sunshade. Sidewards
on the balcony, a young man blowing a shell-shaped horn; and in front
of them, the sea with a richly ornamented gondola flying the Venetian
ensign, with two gondoliers on board of it. In the background the
ocean, alive with hundreds and hundreds of sails, and a view of the
towers and palaces of gorgeous Venice rising above the waves; to the
left San Marco distinguishable, and more to the right--towards the
foreground--San Giorgio Maggiore. On the frame of the picture were the
words:
"'"Ah' senza amare
Andar sulla mare
Col' sposo del mare
Non puo consolare.
"'"To sail upon the sapphire sea
With him, the consort of the ocean,
Where love is not, and cannot be,
Wakes in the heart no soft emotion."
"'There arose, one day, before this picture, a somewhat idle discussion
as to whether, in painting it, the painter's intention had been merely
to portray a momentary situation (adequately represented by the
picture) of an old man, incapable, notwithstanding all his magnificence
and splendour, of satisfying the longings of a young and loving heart,
or to record an actual historical event. Weary of this discussion the
members of the group dispersed, till at length only two staunch lovers
of the noble painter's craft were left.
"'"I do not know," the one of them began, "why it is that people spoil
all their own enjoyment by these perpetual childish explainings and
explainings. Not only do I consider that I see perfectly well what the
painter meant by his doge and dogaressa--the idea which he intended
them to express--but I am struck, and impressed, in a quite unusual
degree, by the shimmer of richness and power which is spread over the
whole of this work. Look at that flag with the winged lion, how it
seems to control the world as it flutters in the breeze. Oh! glorious
Venice!"
"'And he began to repeat Truandot's riddle concerning the Lion of the
Adriatic.
"'"Dimmi qual sei quella terribil fera," &c., &c.
"'Scarcely had he finished doing this, when a sonorous male voice broke
in with Calaf's answer to the said riddle:
"'"Tu, quadrupede fera," &c.
"'Unnoticed by the friends, a man had taken up his position behind
them; a man of very distinguished appearance, having a grey cloak cast,
artist-like, over his shoulders, who was contemplating the picture with
sparkling eyes. A conversation commenced between them, and the stranger
said, in a tone which was almost solemn:
"'"It is a strange mystery that, often, a picture dawns in a painter's
mind, of which the characters--previously mere irrecognizable, bodiless
mist, driving about in the atmosphere--seem, for the first time, to
assume form in his brain, and to find their home there, and, of a
sudden, the picture binds itself up with the past, or perhaps with the
future, and represents something which has happened, or is to happen
hereafter. Kolbe may not be aware himself, as yet, that in that picture
of his he has painted none other than the Doge Marino Falieri and his
wife, Annunziata."
"'The stranger paused; but the two friends begged him to solve this
riddle for them as he had done that of the Lion of the Adriatic."
"'So he said, "If you have the necessary patience, gentlemen, I will at
once give you the solution of the riddle, in the shape of the story of
Falieri. The question is, _have_ you the necessary patience? For I mean
to be exceedingly circumstantial; because, were I not to be so, I
should much prefer not to speak of these matters at all--though they
are as vividly present to my eyes as if I had actually witnessed them.
There is nothing strange in this; for every historian (and _I_ am a
historian) is a species of ghost, telling of things bygone."
"'The friends accompanied the stranger to a room at some little
distance; where, without further prelude, he went on, as follows:--
"'"A long, long time ago--if I mistake not, it was in the month of
August of the year 1354--the great Genoese General Paganino Doria had
utterly routed the Venetians, and taken their town of Parenzo by storm.
In the gulf, close before Venice, his well-manned galleys were cruizing
up and down, like hungry beasts of prey running backwards and forwards,
watching how best to grasp their quarry. Deadly terror took possession
of the Signoria and populace. Everybody who could carry arms took to
their weapons or to their oars. They collected their forces and
treasure at the harbour of San Nicolo. Ships and trees were sunk, and
chains fastened together, to block the passage against the enemy.
Whilst the weapons and the armour clanged and clattered, and the heavy
masses went thundering down into the sea, agents of the Signoria were
to be seen on the Rialto wiping the perspiration from their pale
foreheads, and offering, in hoarse accents and with distracted faces,
cent, per cent. for ready cash; for even of that the troubled republic
was in urgent need. But it was decreed in the mysterious councils of
Eternal Providence that just at this season of the extremest trouble
and necessity the faithful shepherd of this distracted flock should be
taken away from them. The Doge, Andrea Dandulo, whom his people styled
'The dear little Count' (_Il caro Contino_)--because he was always kind
and good, and never crossed the square of San Marco without being
prepared with money or good advice for all who needed either--died,
worn out by fatigue and anxiety. And as those who are disheartened by
misfortune feel doubly every blow, which at another time they would
scarcely notice, the people were overwhelmed with sorrow when they
heard the bells of San Marco announcing in hollow tones of sadness the
death of their ruler. Their hope and stay was gone; they cried aloud
that they would have to bow their necks to the yoke of Genoa; although,
as concerned the warlike operations, the death of Dandulo did not seem
such a great disaster. For the little Count liked to live in peace and
comfort; he was fonder of watching the mysterious courses of the stars
than of studying the enigmatic turnings and windings of statecraft; he
knew better how to duly order an Easter procession than how to lead an
army to battle. The desideratum now was the choice of a Doge who should
possess both the generalship and the diplomatic skill necessary to
rescue Venice from the clutches of her enemy, more daring every day and
hour. The Senators met; but nothing was seen save troubled faces, eyes
fixed on the ground, and heads leaned on the hand. Where should a man
be found capable of grasping the helm with vigorous, strenuous hand,
and steering the vessel of the State safe through the storm?
"'At length the oldest of the senators, Marino Bodoeri, began to speak.
"'"Here," he said, "around us or about us, he is not to be found. But
turn your eyes to Avignon, to Marino Falieri, whom we sent to
congratulate Pope Innocent on his election. He might be better employed
now. If we make him Doge he will weather this storm. You will say he is
well on to his eightieth year, with his hair and his beard turned to
silver; that his vigorous aspect, his gleaming eyes, and the rosy tint
of his nose and cheeks are due (as evil tongues choose to say) more to
good Cyprus wine than to toughness of constitution. What matter!
Remember the brilliant courage he displayed when he was Proveditor of
the Black Sea Fleet. Think of the deserts which moved the procurators
of San Marco to reward him with the rich Countship of Valdemarino."
"'Thus did Bodoeri paint Falieri's merits in the most brilliant
colours, and refute, in advance, all objections to him, till every vote
was at length given in his favour. It is true many had a good deal to
say of his violent temper, his lust for power, and his self-will. But
on the other hand it was urged, "It is because all _that_ has, in his
old age, passed away from him that we choose the aged--not the
youthful--Falieri." Hostile voices such us these fell silent as soon as
the populace, on hearing of his election, broke forth into boundless
rejoicing. In time of danger, disquiet, and anxiety, any decision, so
long as it is a decision, is looked upon as a divine inspiration.
"'So the "dear little Count," with all his gentleness and kindliness,
was clean forgotten, and everybody cried:
"'"By Saint Mark, this Marino ought to have been our Doge long ago; and
then we should not have had this presumptuous Doria upon our
shoulders." And maimed soldiers held up their arms, and cried:
"'"This is that Falieri who vanquished Morbassan; this is the valiant
leader whose victorious banners waved in the breezes of the Black Sea."
Wherever the populace were collected some one would tell of old
Falieri's heroic deeds; the sky rang with wild shouts of joy, as if
Doria were beaten already. Moreover, Nicolo Pisani (who--heaven only
knew why--had sailed quietly off to Sardinia, instead of going with his
fleet to encounter Doria) came back at last. Doria withdrew from the
gulf; and what the return of Pisani's fleet had effected was
unanimously ascribed to the terrible name "Falieri." The populace and
the Signoria were seized by a sort of fanatical ecstasy at the
fortunate selection; and it was determined that the new Doge should be
welcomed on his arrival as if he were some messenger of heaven bringing
with him honour, wealth, and victory. The Signoria sent twelve nobles,
each escorted by a numerous and brilliant retinue, to Verona, where the
envoys of the Republic were to announce to Falieri, on his arrival, his
elevation to the leadership of the State. Fifteen richly decorated
galleys, prepared for the occasion by the Podesta of Chioggia, and
under command of his son, Taddeo Giustiniani, received the Doge and his
following at Chiozzo. He thence proceeded to St. Clemens (where the
Bucentoro was waiting for him) in a triumphal procession like those of
the mightiest and most victorious monarchs.
"Just at this time, namely, when Marino Falieri was about to step on
board the Bucentoro (and this was on the evening of the third of
October, as the sun was beginning to set), a poor unfortunate fellow
was lying stretched out upon the marble pavement under the pillars of
the Palace. A few rags of striped canvas, whose colour had ceased to be
distinguishable, and which seemed to have belonged to a costume such as
the commonest sort of boatmen and porters wear, hung about his
attenuated limbs. Nothing in the nature of a shirt was visible save the
poor fellow's own skin, which peeped out everywhere, but was so fine
and white and delicate that the very noblest in the land might have
displayed it without shyness or shame. Also the very leanness of his
limbs set off the pureness of their symmetry. And when one saw the
bright chestnut locks, all wild and dishevelled, which shaded the
beautiful forehead; the blue eyes, darkened only by comfortless
poverty; the aquiline nose; the delicately formed mouth, of this
unfortunate, it was clear that it must have been some most adverse fate
which had sent this well-born stranger crashing down in amongst the
lower classes of the people.
"'As we have said, this poor youth was lying in front of the pillars of
the Palace, with his head resting on his right arm, gazing motionless
far out to seaward with a fixed gaze, from which thought was absent.
One would have thought that life had left him, and that the death-agony
had turned him into a stone image, had he not sighed deeply now and
then, as in the most unutterable sorrow. This was probably from the
pain in his left arm, which he had stretched out on the pavement, and,
being wrapped in blood-stained rags, seemed to be badly hurt.
"'All labour was at rest, the noise of business was silent; all Venice
was afloat in boats and gondolas, going to meet and welcome the
much-prized Falieri. Thus the unfortunate youth in question was sighing
forth his sufferings in uncomforted helplessness. But even as his weary
head sank back on the pavement, and he seemed near to fainting, a
hoarse, grating voice called, several times:
"'"Antonio! my dear Antonio!"
"At length he raised himself into a half-sitting position, and, turning
his head towards the pillars of the Palace, from behind which the voice
seemed to proceed, he said, in a faint, weary voice, scarcely audible:
"'"Who is it who calls me? Who has come to cast my body into the sea?
For it will soon be all over with me."
"Then an old, old woman, coughing and wheezing, and leaning on a stick,
came hobbling up to him, and, as she leant over him, broke out into a
repulsive, unpleasant kickering and laughing.
"'"Silly boy!" she whispered; "going to die here, just when golden
good-fortune is dawning upon you? Look before you; look before you
there! That is all I ask of you! Look at those flames that light
up the evening sky. They are _zecchini_ for you. But you must
eat, dear Antonio; you must eat and drink. It is nothing but
hunger--fasting--that has brought you so low, and laid you down here
on the cold stones. Your arm is better now; better again now."
"Antonio recognised in this old woman the strange beggar wife, who was
always sitting on the steps of the Franciscan Church, asking alms of
the pious, always chuckling and laughing as she did so; and to whom he
had often, from a strange indescribable inward inclination, thrown a
hard-earned _quattrino_: he had not a great many to spare.
"'"Leave me in peace, crack-brained creature!" he said. "I suppose it
is fasting, more than the hurt, which makes me weak and miserable. I
haven't earned a single _quattrino_ for the last three days. I wanted
to go over to the monastery, to see if I could get a spoonful or two of
soup; but the comrades are all away. Not a soul would take me into his
boat for compassion. So I have fallen down here; very likely I shall
never get up again."
"'"He-he-he-he!" snickered the old woman: "why despair at once and lose
heart? You are hungry and thirsty. There's help at hand for that.
Here's some nice dried fish, bought this morning at the Zecca. Here's
lemon-juice, and a nice white loaf. Eat, my son; eat and drink, my son!
and then we'll have a look at the wounded arm."
"'She had taken the fish, the bread, and the lemon-juice out of the
sort of bag which she wore at her back, sticking up over her head
something like a cowl. As soon as Antonio had moistened his lips with
the lemon-juice his hunger awoke with redoubled might, and he eagerly
devoured the fish and the bread. The old woman meanwhile was busily
removing the bandages from his arm, when it was evident that, though
the hurt had been severe, it was healing now, fast. As she rubbed it
with a salve which she took out of a little box, warming it with her
breath, she said:
"'"Who was it who gave you the blow, poor little son?"
"'Antonio, refreshed, and aglow with new fire of life, had risen
upright. Raising his clenched right hand, he cried, with gleaming eyes:
"'"That scoundrel Nicolo wanted to kill me, because he grudges and
envies me every _quattrino_ which any benevolent hand gives me. You
know that I used to gain a hard-earned livelihood by carrying cargo
from the ships and boats to the German's warehouse, the Fontego, as
they call it; you know the building, of course?"
"'When Antonio pronounced the word "Fontego," the old woman began to
kicker and laugh in a horrible manner, and went on repeating the word
"Fontego, Fontego, Fontego," in a chattering, senseless way.
"'"Silence that nonsensical laughter of yours, old lady, if I am to go
on with my story," Antonio cried. She was silent at once, and he
continued.
"'"Well, I had earned a _quattrino_ or two, bought a new jacket, and
came among the gondoliers as one of themselves. And, because I was
always in good spirits, worked hard, and knew plenty of nice songs, I
earned many a _quattrino_ more than the others. And this awakened their
envy; they slandered me to my master, and he turned me away. Wherever I
went they cried "German dog! damned heretic!" after me; and three days
ago, when I was helping to haul a boat on shore near San Sebastiano,
they set upon me with stones and sticks. I defended myself like a man,
but that brute of a Nicolo hit at me with an oar, grazing my head, and
struck me so hard on the arm that he knocked me down. But now you have
filled me with a good meal, old lady; and there can be no doubt that I
feel your salve has done my arm good. See how I can move it; I shall be
able to row as well as ever almost directly."
"'He had risen from the ground, and was swinging his hurt arm backwards
and forwards vigorously. But the old woman cackled and laughed loud
again, and cried, tripping and dancing about in narrow circles, in a
strange way:
"'"Row! row! my little son! Row, like a man! It is coming! it is
coming!--the bright gold, glowing in grand flames! Row! row! like a
man!--just _once_ more, and then, never again."
"'Antonio was paying no further attention to the old woman's
proceedings, for a splendid spectacle had now begun to be visible to
his eyes. Up from San Clemens the Bucentoro was advancing with
resounding stroke of oars, and the Lion of the Adriatic on her
fluttering standard; like some golden swan of powerful pinions,
surrounded by thousands of boats and gondolas, she seemed, as she
lifted her proud, royal head on high, to lord it over a jubilant
multitude which had arisen, with glittering heads, from the deep
abysses of the ocean. The evening sun was casting glowing rays over the
sea, and over Venice, so that everything lay steeped in naming fire.
But as Antonio, in utter forgetfulness of his troubles, was gazing at
this sight, the glow grew bloodier and bloodier. A sullen hum came
through the air, given back like some fearful echo by the deeps of the
sea. A storm came sweeping up on black clouds, shrouding everything in
thick darkness; the waves rose higher and higher, like hissing, foaming
monsters, threatening to overwhelm everything. The boats and the
gondolas were driven in all directions, like feathers before a gale.
The Bucentoro, unfit, from her build, to weather the squall, drove
hither and thither. Instead of the glad festive tones of the trumpets
and cornets, rose cries of terror from those in danger on board of her.
"'Antonio looked before him in amazement. Close to him he heard a
clanking of chains. He looked down, and saw that there was a little
skiff made fast to the quay, bounding up and down on the surges. Like a
lightning-flash a thought struck his mind. He jumped into the skiff;
cast it adrift; took hold of the oars, and stood bravely out to sea,
making straight for the Bucentoro. The nearer he got to it, the more
distinctly he heard the cries for help of those on board--
"'"Save the Doge!--Save the Doge!"
"'It is well known that, in squalls of this description, small boats
such as the one he was in are much more sea-worthy, and easier to
handle, than such large craft as the Bucentoro; and consequently many
of them came hurrying up from every direction to save the beloved
Marino Falieri. But it is the case, in this life, that the Eternal
Power always vouchsafes the success of a brave action to one alone, so
that others cumber themselves about it in vain. On this occasion the
rescue of the new Doge was allotted to Antonio, and therefore he, and
nobody else, succeeded in making his way, in his little fishing-boat,
to the Bucentoro. Old Falieri, well accustomed to dangers of this kind,
stepped with much coolness out of the magnificent but dangerous
Bucentoro into Antonio's boat, which bore him, lightly as a dolphin,
over the breaking waves, and landed him in a few minutes safe and sound
on the Piazza di San Marco. With dripping clothes, and great salt-drops
in his grey beard, the old man was taken into the church, where the
nobles, pale with alarm, concluded the ceremony of his triumphal entry.
The populace, as well as the Signoria, were wholly upset by this
unfortunate break-down of the triumphal entry. And, in addition to
this, the Doge, in his hurry and confusion, was led through between
the two columns where malefactors were usually put to death. In
consequence, Signoria and populace grew silent in the midst of their
rejoicing. The day, which had begun in such festivity, ended in sadness
and gloom.
"'On the Doge's preserver nobody seemed to bestow a thought. Antonio
himself was not thinking about the matter; he was lying in the entrance
of the ducal palace, tired to death, half fainting from pain. It was
all the more marvellous to him when, as it was almost dark night, a
ducal halberdier took hold of him by the shoulder, and, with the words
"Come along, good friend," pushed him into the palace, and to the
Doge's chamber. The old man came up to him in a friendly manner, and,
pointing to several well-filled purses which were on the table, said:
"'"You have behaved like a man, my good son. Here, take these three
thousand _zecchini_. If you want more, say so. But do me the favour
never to let me see your face again."
"'As he spoke those latter words, sparks blazed from the old man's
eyes, and the point of his nose grew even redder than it was before.
Antonio did not see the old man's drift, but he did not let that
circumstance much trouble him; so he took up, with some difficulty, the
purses, thinking he had earned them very fairly.
"'Shining in all the radiance of his newly-attained dignity, old
Falieri looked down next morning upon the populace, from one of the
windows of his palace, as they were crowding and thronging about,
practising warlike exercises and the carriage of weapons. Soon Bodoeri
who had been his most intimate friend from his earliest days--arrived;
and as Falieri was so absorbed in himself and in his grandeur that he
did not seem to notice him, he clapped his hands crying:
"'"Hey, hey, Falieri! what are the sublime ideas brooding in that head
of yours, now that it wears the Doge's cap?"
"'As if awakening from a dream, Falieri came to meet Bodoeri,
constraining himself to an appearance of friendliness. He felt that it
was to Bodoeri that he owed the cap in question, and his words had the
effect of being a slight reminder of that circumstance. But every
obligation pressed like an intolerable burden on his proud, overbearing
spirit, and as he could not turn upon the senior member of the Council,
and his own oldest friend, in the way in which he had sent Antonio
about his business, he constrained himself to a word or two of thanks,
and at once began to talk of the measures to be adopted against the
overweening enemy.
"'Bodoeri gave a significant smile. "That," he said, "and the other
matters demanded of you by the State, we will maturely consider and
discuss, in full Council, an hour or two hence. I have not come here,
at this early hour of the day, to discover, with you, the measures
necessary for the checking of the presumptuous Doria, or for the
bringing to reason of Ludwig the Hungarian, whose chops are watering
for our Dalmatian sea-ports again. No, Falieri; I have been thinking of
yourself only--and, in fact, of what perhaps you would not imagine I
had been thinking of--of your marriage."
"'"How could you think of such a thing?" said the Doge, in anger; and,
turning his back to Bodoeri, he looked out of the window. "It is a
long time to Ascension Day. By that time, I trust--the enemy being
conquered--victory, honour, new wealth, and brighter power will have
fallen to the share of the sea-born Lion of the Adriatic. My chaste
bride should find her bridegroom worthy of her."
"'"Ah!" said Bodoeri; "you are speaking of the grand Feast of
Ascension, when you have to cast the golden ring from the Bucentoro
into the waves, and consider that you wed yourself to the Adriatic Sea.
But, Marino, you, who are the sea's kinsman, can you think of no other
bride than that cold, treacherous element, which you fancy you command,
but which rebelled against you in such a threatening manner only
yesterday? What pleasure can you imagine there should be found in the
arms of such a bride--a foolish, self-willed thing who, as soon as you,
gliding along in the Bucentoro, did but gently caress her chill, blue
cheek, rose up in storm and wrath? No, no, Marino; _my_ notion is that
you should marry the loveliest daughter of earth that can be
discovered."
"'"My old friend," said Falieri, in a murmur, "this is a mere senile
dream of yours." As he spoke, he still looked out of the window. "An
old man of eighty, bent and worn with labour and anxiety, who has never
been married, can hardly be capable of love."
"'"Stay," answered Bodoeri; "do not calumniate yourself. Does not
winter, for all his rawness and cold, at last stretch arms all longing
towards the beautiful goddess who comes to him borne on the wings of
the warm, gentle zephyrs? And when he clasps her to his chilled breast,
and the soft rapture runs through his members, where are his ice and
snow? You say you are nearly eighty; and it is true. But do you reckon
man's age merely by his years? Do you not hold your head as high and
walk with as firm a tread as you did forty years ago? Or perhaps you
feel (though I know you do not) that your strength has begun to fail;
that you have to wear a lighter sword; that a rapid pace wearies you;
that you cough and fetch breath as you mount the steps of the ducal
palace?"
"'"By Heaven, I do not!" Falieri interrupted his friend, leaving the
window, and striding up to him with a rapid, vigorous step. "No, by
Heaven! I trace nothing of that."
"'"Well then," said Bodoeri, "enjoy, with an old man's enjoyment, and
with all _your_ capacity for enjoyment, all the earthly pleasures which
are appointed for you. Take to you, as your Dogaressa, the wife whom I
have found for you; and in her the ladies of Venice will have to
recognise their first and foremost, in beauty and in every virtue, just
as the men must acknowledge you their master in valour, intellect, and
power."
"'Here Bodoeri began to sketch the portrait of a lady; and he blended
the colours with such skill, and laid them on with such vividness, that
old Falieri's eyes sparkled, and his lips smacked as if he were
savouring beaker after beaker of fiery wine of Syracuse.
"'"And who," he enquired, "is this paragon of loveliness?"
"'"No other than my beloved niece," Bodoeri answered.
"'"Your niece!" cried Falieri. "Why she was married to Bertuccio
Nenolo when I was Podesta of Treviso."
"'"Ah," said Bodoeri, "you are thinking of my niece Francesca. But it
is her daughter whom I am talking of. You remember that the war brought
the rough, fierce Nenolo to his end, at sea. Francesca, in her sorrow,
immured herself in a convent at Rome, and I brought up little
Annunziata in deep retirement at my villa at Treviso."
"'"What?" Falieri again impatiently interrupted; "you propose that I
should marry your niece's daughter? How long is it since Nenolo's
marriage? Let us see! Annunziata must be, at the outside, a child of
about ten! Nenolo's marriage was not even dreamt of when I was
appointed Podesta of Treviso; and that must be----"
"'"Five-and-twenty years ago," cried Bodoeri. "Time has passed so
quickly with you that you forget how long that time was ago. Annunziata
is a girl of nineteen, beautiful as the sun, modest, gentle,
inexperienced in love, for she has scarcely seen a man. She will cling
to you with child-like affection, and utter devotion."
"'"I must see her; I must see her," the Doge cried. The portrait of
her, limned by the astute Bodoeri, came back to his mind's eye.
"'His wish was gratified that same day; for scarce had he returned from
the Council to his own abode when Bodoeri (who had abundant reasons of
his own for desiring to see his niece Dogaressa) brought the lovely
Annunziata to him in private. When old Falieri saw this beautiful young
creature he was astounded at her marvellous loveliness, and was
scarcely able, in stammering, unintelligible words, to ask her to marry
him. Annunziata, doubtless schooled beforehand by Bodoeri, fell on her
knees before the aged prince, with deep blushes on her cheeks. She took
his hand, pressed it to her lips, and said:
"'"Oh, my liege! would you so far honour me as to raise me to your side
on this throne? I will revere you from the depths of my soul, and be
your true maid and servant till my life's end."
"'Old Falieri was beside himself with rapture. When she took his hand
he felt all his members thrill; and then he began so to shake and
tremble with his head, and all his body, that he had to seat himself in
his great chair as quickly as ever he could. It seemed as though
Bodoeri's views concerning the greenness of the Doge's age were about
to be controverted. And he could not repress a strange smile which
twitched about his lips. The innocent Annunziata remarked nothing, and
there was no one present besides. It may have been that old Falieri
felt the undesirability of posing before the populace as the bridegroom
of a girl of nineteen; that a sense arose within him that there was a
certain risk in furnishing the Venetians--fond of fun and jesting--with
a subject such as this for their sallies; and that it was best to keep
the critical point of the date of his marriage in the shade. At all
events, it was determined, with Bodoeri's consent, that the wedding
should be celebrated in the profoundest secrecy, and that the Dogaressa
should, some days afterwards, be presented to the Signoria and populace
as having been long since married to Falieri, and recently come from
Treviso, where she had been waiting whilst he was absent on his mission
to the Papal Court.
"'Let us turn our glance to this well-dressed young gentleman,
classically handsome, who is walking up and down the Rialto, with a
purse of _zecchini_ in his hand, talking with Jews, Turks, Greeks, and
Armenians; who turns aside his gloomy brow, stops, and at last steps
into a gondola and bids the gondoliers take him to the Palazzo di San
Marco. Arrived there, he strolls up and down, with folded arms, and
devious, uncertain step, with eyes fixed on the ground, unobservant,
not dreaming that many a whisper, many a clearing of the throat, from
many a window, and many a richly-draped balcony, are love-signals
directed to his address. It is not so very easy to recognize in this
youth the Antonio who, a few days ago, was lying in rags, poor and
miserable, on the marble pavement of the Dogana.
"'"Little son!--my golden little son Antonio!--good-day! good-day!" the
old beggar-woman called out to him from the steps of St. Mark's, where
she was sitting, as he was pacing past her without taking any notice of
her. Turning quickly round and seeing her, he put his hand in his purse
and brought it out full of _zecchini_, which he was about to throw to
her.
"'"Let your money stay where it is," she cried, with her usual cackling
laughter. "What do I want it for? Am I not rich enough? If you really
want to do me a kindness, get me a new hood; this one won't hold out
much longer against wind and weather. Yes! do that, my golden little
son. But keep away from the Fontego!--keep away from the Fontego!"
"'He stared into her pale yellow face, where the wrinkles were all
twitching and working in a strange, gruesome fashion; and, as she went
on clapping her withered, "bony hands, and gabbling out, in a whining
tone, accompanied with her odd, repulsive chuckling,
"'"Keep away from the Fontego!"
"'Antonio cried,
"'"Will nothing induce you to cease your idiotic nonsense, and behave
like a reasonable being, you old witch?"
"'But the instant he uttered this, the old woman rolled from the top to
the bottom of the flight of lofty marble steps where she was sitting,
as if struck by a flash of lightning. Antonio darted up to her and
caught her in his arms, breaking her heavy fall.
"'"Oh, little son! what a terrible word you used!" cried the old woman,
in a faint, tearful voice. "Oh! kill me rather than say that terrible
word again! Ah! you do not know how dreadfully you hurt me!--me, who
bear you so faithfully in my heart. Ah! you do not know----"
"'She broke off suddenly, covered her head with the corner of her old
cloak, and sighed and whimpered as in the deepest sorrow. Antonio was
strangely moved: he took her in his arms, and carried her up the steps
to the portico of the church, where he set her down on a marble bench.
"'"You were very kind to me," he said, releasing her head from the
folds of the cloak. "You were very kind to me. It is you whom I have to
thank for my good fortune. For if you had not helped me in my dire
necessity I should have been at the bottom of the sea at this moment. I
should never have rescued the Doge; I should never have got the
_zecchini_. But even if you never had done anything for me, I feel that
I must always have a strange, strong liking for you all my days, though
that extraordinary cackle of yours and your senseless style of
behaviour often make me feel plenty of inward gruesomeness with regard
to you. The fact is, old woman, that in the days when I was gaining a
mere livelihood by portering and rowing I always felt that I must work
harder than I otherwise should have had to do, just that I might have a
spare _quattrino_ now and then to give to you."
"'"Oh, my Tonino! my golden little son!" she cried, lifting her
hands to heaven, so that her staff fell clattering down the marble
steps, and rolled far away; "oh, my Tonino! I know that, whatever
you think, you must always be devoted to me with your whole heart,
because----silence--silence--silence!"
"'She bent stiffly down, in search of her staff; Antonio fetched it;
she leant her sharp chin upon it, and, fixing her eyes on the ground,
said, in a subdued, hollow voice:
"'"Tell me, my child, have you no remembrance of the earlier time?--how
it passed?--how things were with you before you became a poor wretched
fellow here, scarce able to keep body and soul together?"
"'Antonio heaved a profound sigh, sat down beside her, and said:
"'"Ah, mother! I know but too well that my parents were in the most
prosperous circumstances; but as to who they were, or how I lost them,
not the faintest remembrance remains to me, or could remain to me. I
distinctly remember a tall, handsome man, who used to take me up in his
arms, and pet me, and give me sweetmeats; and also I recollect a kind,
pretty woman, who dressed me and undressed me, put me into a little
soft bed every evening, and was good to me in every way. They both
talked to me in a rich-sounding foreign language, and I myself used to
stammer many words of this language after them. In the days when I was
a boatman, my comrades--who hated me--used to say always that, from my
hair, my eyes, and the build of my body, I must be of German blood. I
think so too, and I have little doubt that the language of those people
who cared for me (I am certain the man was my father) was German. My
most vivid remembrance of those times is a picture of terror; of a
night when I was roused from a deep sleep by screams of anguish. People
were hurrying up and down in the house; doors kept opening and
shutting. I grew terribly frightened, and began to cry. Then the woman
who took care of me came rushing in, lifted me from my bed, stopped my
mouth, wrapped me in clothes, and ran with me from thence. From that
moment my memory is a blank, till I find myself again in a fine house,
surrounded by beautiful country. The image of a man comes out, whom I
called 'father,' and who was a stately gentleman, noble-looking and
kind. He, and every one in the house, spoke Italian. Once, when there
had been several weeks when I had not seen him, a day came when
repulsive-looking strangers arrived, who made a great disturbance,
turning everything upside down. When they saw me they asked who I was,
and what I was doing there. I said I was Antonio, the son of the house.
On my repeating this they laughed in my face, tore the clothes off my
back, and turned me out of doors, telling me that I should be beaten if
I showed my face there any more. I ran away, crying loudly. Scarce a
hundred paces from the house an old man met me whom I recognized as one
of my foster-father's servants. 'Come, Antonio; come, poor boy!' he
cried, taking me by the hand. 'That house is closed to both of us for
ever. We must do the best we can to get a bit of bread.' This old man
brought me here. Scarce had we come when I saw that he pulled out
_zecchini_ from his ragged doublet, and went up and down all day on the
Rialto, doing business, sometimes as a broker, sometimes as a merchant.
I had to be always close at his heels; and whenever he did a bit of
business, he always asked for a trifle for the _figliulo_, as he called
me. Everybody whom I looked boldly in the eyes would pull out a
_quattrino_ or two, which he used to pocket with much satisfaction,
stroking my cheeks, and saying he was saving them up to buy me a new
doublet. I was happy enough with this old man, whom people called
'Father Bluenose,' I don't know why.
"'"You remember that terrible time when one day the earth began to
tremble; when the palaces and the towers wavered backwards and forwards
as if shaken to their foundations, and the bells tolled as if swayed by
invisible giant arms. It must be about seven years ago; or not quite so
long. Fortunately the old man and I escaped in safety from the house
where we were living; it fell almost about our ears. But this terrible
event was merely the announcement of the coming of the monster which
soon breathed its poison over town and country. It was known that the
plague, which had been brought to Sicily from the Levant, had reached
Tuscany. Venice was still free from it. One day Father Bluenose was
bargaining on the Rialto with an Armenian. They settled their business,
and shook hands warmly. Bluenose had sold some goods at a favourable
rate to the Armenian, and, as usual, asked for a trifle for the
'_figliulo_.' The Armenian--a big strong man, with a thick, curly beard
(I see him before me at this moment)--looked kindly at me, kissed me,
and took out a _zecchino_ or two, which he put into my hand, and which
I quickly pocketed. We took a gondola to go over to San Marco. As we
were crossing, the old man asked me to give him the money, and I don't
know why it was that I came to maintain that I ought to keep it myself,
because the Armenian had wished me to do so. The old man was angry;
but, as he was arguing with me, I noticed that his face took on a
horrible, earthy-yellow colour, and that he mixed up all sorts of wild
incoherent things in what he was saying. When we landed at the Piazza
he staggered about like a drunken man, till, just in front of the Ducal
Palazzo, he fell down dead. I threw myself on his body with loud
outcries of grief. The people came running up; but the terrible cry
'The plague! the plague!' broke out, and they all went scattering away
in every direction. At the same instant I was seized by a dull
stupefaction, and my senses left me. When I awoke from this condition I
found myself in a spacious chamber, on a little mattress, covered with
a woollen rug. Around me some twenty or thirty pale forms were lying,
on similar mattresses. Afterwards I learned that some compassionate
monks, who happened to be passing at the time of my seizure, finding
some traces of life in me, had taken me to a gondola and over to the
Monastery of San Giorgio Maggiore, where the Benedictines had
established an hospital. But how can I ever describe to you, old woman,
that moment when I came back to consciousness? The fury of the disease
had completely taken away from me all memory of the past. As if life
had suddenly come to some statue, I possessed only the consciousness of
the present moment, knitted on to nothing besides. You may fancy what
disconsolateness this condition--only to be called a consciousness
floating in vacant space, with nothing to hold on to--brought to me.
The monks could only tell me that I had been found beside Father
Bluenose, whose son I was supposed to be. My thoughts collected
themselves by slow degrees, so that I remembered something of my former
life. But what I have told you is all I know of it; nothing but one or
two detached pictures, without connection or coherency. Alas! this
disconsolate sense of being alone in the world keeps me from all
happiness, well as things are going with me now."
"'"Tonino, my dear! content yourself with what the bright present-time
affords you," the old woman said.
"'"Be quiet," he answered. "There is something more, which makes my
life wretched, continually tortures me, and will, sooner or later, be
my destruction. Ever since I awoke to consciousness in the hospital, an
unutterable longing, a yearning, which consumes my very heart, for a
something which I can neither name nor understand, has continually
filled my whole being. When I used to throw myself down at night on my
hard bed, poor and wretched, worn and broken by the bitter labour of
the day, there came a dream, fanning my fevered brow, and giving back
to me, in gentle whisperings, all the bliss of a brief moment of utter
happiness, which the Eternal Power permitted me to realize in my
fancy--for the consciousness that I did once possess it rests ever in
the depths of my heart. I sleep on soft cushions now, and bitter labour
no longer consumes my strength. But when I awake from my dream, or
when, in the waking state, the consciousness of that moment comes into
my soul, I feel that my poor, wretched existence is, to me, now as
then, an unbearable burden which I long to shake away from me. All
reflection, all researching, are in vain. I can not fathom what, so
gorgeously happy, occurred to me in my early life, of which the dim
reflected echo--incomprehensible to me, alas!--fills me with such
delight. But this delight becomes burning torture when I am compelled
to recognize the truth that every hope of finding that Eden again--nay,
of even searching for it--is over. Can there be traces of that which
has disappeared _without_ a trace?"
"'Antonio ceased speaking, and sighed profoundly from the depths of his
heart.
"'During his narration the old woman had borne herself as one who is
wholly carried away by the pain of another, and, like a mirror,
reflects every movement to which that other is constrained by his
suffering.
"'"Tonino! dear Tonino!" she now said, in a tearful voice; "why do you
despair because something delightful, of which you have lost the
memory, happened to you in early life? Silly boy! Silly boy! Listen!
he, he, he."
"'And she commenced her usual disagreeable kickering and laughing, as
she danced about on the marble pavement. People came--she crouched down
again--they gave her alms.
"'"Antonio, Antonio!" she cried, "take me to the sea, take me to the
sea!"
"'Antonio, scarce knowing what he was doing, lifted her in his arms and
carried her slowly across the Piazza di San Marco. As they went, she
murmured, softly and solemnly--
"'"Antonio, you see those dark stains of blood on the ground here? Yes,
yes; quantities of blood, everywhere! But he, he, he! out of the blood
grow roses--beautiful red roses! garlands for you, for your darling!
Oh, thou Lord of Life! what a beautiful angel comes to him, with the
loveliest smiles, opening her lily arms to take him to her heart! Oh,
Antonio, fortunate boy, play the man, play the man! and myrtle shall
you gather in the sweet evening tide. Myrtle for your bride--for the
virgin widow--he, he, he! Myrtle gathered in the red light of evening,
to blossom in the deep midnight. List to the whisper of the night wind,
to the longing sighs of the summer sea! Row! Row! Work your oar,
doughty boatman! Row, row! sturdily on!"
"'Antonio was filled with a sense of deep awe at those words of the old
woman, which she murmured in a strange voice, different from her usual
one, chuckling all the while. They had come to the pillar which bears
the Adriatic Lion. The old woman, murmuring still, wanted to be carried
further; but Antonio, pained at her behaviour, and jeered at by the
passers-by on the score of this strange 'dama' of his, stopped, and
said, rather harshly--
"'"There, old woman! I shall set you down on those steps. Oh _do_ stop
that chatter of yours! I feel as though it would turn my head! It is
true you saw my _zecchini_ in the flame-pictures of the clouds; but
just for that reason, what are you chattering of an angel, a bride, a
virgin widow, roses, myrtles? Would you befool me, horrible creature,
so that some mad deed shall hurl me down into the abyss? A new cloak
you shall have, bread, _zecchini_, everything you want. But let _me_
alone!"
"'He was making rapidly off, but she seized him by the mantle, and
cried out in piercing tones--
"'"Tonino, my Tonino, only look at me carefully once again, or I must
crawl to the brink of the Piazza there, and throw myself into the sea."
"'Antonio, to avoid drawing more enquiring regards upon him than those
which were bent upon him already, paused in his flight.
"'"Tonino," she said, "sit down beside me here. It is breaking my
heart. I _must_ tell it to you. Oh, sit down here beside me!"
"'He sat down therefore on the steps with his back turned to her, and
took out his pocket-book, of which the blank leaves shewed how little
attention he paid to his business transactions on the Rialto.
"'"Tonino," she said, "when you look at this wrinkled face of mine,
does not the faintest gleam dawn within you of a sense that you may
have known me in your very early days?"
"'"I have told you already," he answered, in a whisper like her own,
"that I feel drawn to you in a manner inexplicable to myself; but your
ill-favoured, wrinkled face has nothing to do with that. Rather, when I
look at your strange black flashing eyes, your pointed nose, your blue
lips, your long chin, your streaming ice-grey hair--when I listen to
your horrible cackling and laughing, and the strange, incoherent things
you say, I could almost turn from you with horror, and fancy that it is
some unholy art which you have at your command that draws me to you."
"'"Oh, Lord of Heaven!" she cried; "what evil spirit of hell suggests
such thoughts to you? Ah, Tonino! the woman who cared for you and
tended you in your infancy, who saved your life on that night of
terror, was I!"
"'In the sudden terror of his amazement he turned quickly round. But
when he looked in her horrible face, he angrily cried--
"'"Do you think you can befool me thus, you wicked old lunatic? The few
pictures from my childhood which remain with me are vivid and fresh.
That fine, handsome woman who took care of me--oh! I see her before my
eyes distinctly. She had a full face, with a rich colour, eyes with a
gentle, mild look in them, beautiful dark-brown hair, pretty hands;
she could not have been more than thirty; and you--an old hag of
ninety----"
"'"Oh, all ye saints!" she interrupted, with sobs; "what am I to do to
get my Tonino to believe that I am his faithful Margareta?"
"'"'Margareta'!" murmured Antonio; "'Margareta'! the name falls upon my
ear like music heard long ago, and long forgotten. But can it be
possible? It _cannot_ be possible."
"'She went on more tranquilly, with eyes fixed on the ground, on which
she traced marks and figures with the point of her staff. "The tall,
handsome man who petted you, carried you in his arms, and gave you
sweetmeats really was your father, Antonio; and it _was_ the beautiful
rich-toned German that we spoke. He was a well-known merchant of
Augsburg. His beautiful wife died when you were born. He left the place
because he could not bear to stay where she was buried, and came to
Venice, bringing one, your nurse, your faithful foster-mother, with
him. On that terrible night, which you remember, your father sank
beneath a dreadful fate, which threatened you also. I managed to save
you. A Venetian noble adopted you; and as I had nothing to live on, I
was obliged to stay on in Venice. My father, a surgeon, whom people
accused of practising forbidden arts as well, taught me hidden
secrets of Nature. As we roamed through the fields and meadows he
told me the properties of many a health-giving plant, of many an
insignificant-looking moss, the hours when they ought to be gathered,
the different ways of mingling their juices. But to this knowledge was
added a special gift, with which Heaven, in its inscrutable providence,
has endowed me. I have the power of often seeing future events, as it
were, in a far-away dim mirror; and, almost without any will of my own,
at such times the unknown Power, which I cannot resist, constrains me
to speak what I thus see, in words often unintelligible to myself. Left
alone in Venice, abandoned by all the world, I bethought me of gaining
my bread by this power of mine. I cured the most dangerous diseases and
maladies in a very short time; and as the mere sight of me produced a
favourable effect upon the sick, a gentle stroking with my hands often
brought on a favourable crisis in a few moments. So my fame was soon
noised abroad through the place, and abundance of money flowed in upon
me. Then awoke the envy of the doctors, the _ciarlatani_, who sold
their pills and potions on the Rialto, the Piazza di San Marco, and the
Zecca, and poisoned the sick instead of curing them. They said I was in
league with the Evil One, and the superstitious folk believed them.
Soon I was apprehended, and brought before the ecclesiastical
tribunals. Oh, my Antonio! how terrible were the tortures with which
they tried to make me admit that this accusation was true. But I was
steadfast. My hair turned white, my body crumpled up to a mummy, my
feet and my hands were paralysed. Then came the rack--that most
ingenious of all inventions of the Spirit of Hell. And this dragged
from me an avowal at the thought of which I still shudder with horror.
They were going to burn me; but when the earthquake shook the
foundations of the palaces and the great prison, the doors of the
underground cell where I was opened of themselves, and I tottered out
of that deep grave through among the stones and rubbish. Ah, Tonino!
you called me an old hag of ninety; but I am scarcely more than fifty
at this day. This skeleton of a body, these crippled feet, this
snow-white hair--ah! not years, but unspeakable tortures transformed
the strong robust woman to a scarecrow in a few moons. And this
repulsive cackling laughter was forced out of me by that final terrible
torture, at the remembrance of which my hair still stands on end, and
my body burns as in a coat of red-hot mail. Ever since then it comes
upon me involuntarily, like a continual, irresistible spasm. Don't be
afraid of me any more, my Tonino. Ah, your heart told you long since
that you lay upon my breast as a little boy."
"'"Woman," said Antonio, "I feel that I must believe you. But who was
my father? What was his name? What was the terrible destiny which
overwhelmed him on that awful night? Who was he who adopted me? What
was it which happened in my life that still controls all my being, like
some mighty spell from some strange, unknown world, so that all my
thoughts flow away from me into some dark ocean of night? Answer all
these questions, mysterious woman; and then I shall believe you."
"'"Tonino," she said, "for your own sake I _must_ keep silence; but
soon, soon it will be time. The Fontego! the Fontego! Keep away from
the Fontego!"
"'"Ah!" he cried angrily; "I want no more of your dark sayings, to
tempt me with your unholy arts. My heart will break! You _shall_
speak--or----"
"'"No, no," she pleaded, "don't threaten me! I am your nurse--your
foster-mother----"
"'But, not waiting to hear further, Antonio rose and hurried quickly
away. From a distance he called to her, "You shall have your new cloak,
and _zecchini_ into the bargain, as many as you like."
"'To see the old Doge Marino Falieri with his youthful consort was a
wonderful sight enough. He, strong and robust enough, no doubt, but
with his grey beard, and his bronzed red face covered with a thousand
wrinkles, stepping pathetically along, keeping his head and neck erect
with some difficulty; she, loveliness personified, an angelic
expression of goodness and kindliness in her heavenly face, charm,
irresistible in her longing eyes, nobleness and dignity on her open,
lily forehead, shaded by the dark tresses, sweet smiles upon lips and
cheeks, her little head bending in exquisite meekness; bearing her
slender figure gracefully and lightsomely as she moved along--a
beautiful creature, belonging to another, higher world. Yon know the
type of angel which the old painters had the skill to imagine and
represent. Such was Annunziata. No one who saw her could fail to be
amazed and enraptured. The hearts of the fiery youths among the
Signoria blazed up in brightest flame; each, as he surveyed the old man
with mocking glances, vowed in his own breast to play the Mars to this
Vulcan, at whatever cost. Annunziata was soon the centre of a group of
adorers to whose flattering speeches she listened in courteous silence,
without paying much heed to them, one way or another. Her angelic
purity had suffered her to form no other conception of her relation to
her aged, princely consort than to reverence him as her lord and
master, and cleave to him with the unconditional faithfulness of a
submissive handmaid. He was kind--nay, tender with her. He pressed her
to his icy breast, called her fond names, gave her every sort of costly
present; what more could she desire of him? what further claim had she
upon him? The idea of being faithless to him could take no form within
her. All that lay beyond the restricted circle of the relationship
above set forth was a foreign region, whose forbidden boundaries lay
shrouded in dark mist, unseen, undreamt of by this pure and pious
child. All suit for her favour was fruitless. But none of her adorers
was so violently fired by love for the beautiful Dogaressa as Michaele
Steno. Young as he was, he held the important and influential position
of a member of the Council of Forty. Building upon this, and upon his
personal beauty, he was certain of victory. Of old Falieri he felt no
fear. Indeed the latter seemed, as soon as he was married, to have
wholly laid aside his fierce ebullient irritability and his rough
untameable wildness of disposition. He would sit by the fair
Annunziata's side, dressed out in the richest attire, smiling and
smirking, appearing to ask people, with gentle glances of his grey eyes
(to which the tears would often rise), if any of _them_ could boast of
such a wife. In place of his former domineering style of talking, he
now spoke very gently, scarcely moving his lips, calling every one
"_Carissimo Mio_," and granting the most preposterous petitions. Who
would have recognized, in this tender, affectionate old man, that
Falieri who, in Treviso, on the feast of Corpus Christi, smote the
bishop on the face, in a rage--the conqueror of the formidable
Morbassan? This ever-increasing gentleness stimulated Michaele Steno to
the maddest undertakings. Annunziata had no comprehension of what
Michaele--who persecuted and pursued her continually with words and
glances--wanted of her. She maintained her uniform, gentle
peacefulness; and the very hopelessness engendered by this constantly
unchanging attitude of hers drove him to despair. He planned the vilest
measures. He succeeded in establishing a love affair with Annunziata's
most trusted lady-in-waiting, who at last allowed him to pay her
nocturnal visits. He thought this was a paving of the way to
Annunziata's own unprofaned chamber; but it was Heaven's will that this
vileness should recoil on the head of him who devised it.
"It chanced, one night, that the Doge--who had just received the news
of Nicolo Pisani's having been beaten in the engagement with Doria at
Portelongo--was walking about the halls of the palace in much distress
and anxiety, unable to sleep. He saw a shadow, apparently coming from
Annunziata's chamber, creeping towards the staircase. He hastened up to
it; it was Michaele Steno, coming from his inamorata. A terrible
thought struck Falieri; with a cry of "Annunziata," he rushed at Steno
with a naked stiletto. But Steno--stronger and more active than
the old man--avoided the thrust, threw the Doge to the ground by a
smart blow of his fist, and dashed down the steps, laughing aloud,
and crying "Annunziata! Annunziata!" The old man raised himself, and
made for Annunziata's chamber, with flames of hell in his heart.
Everything there was silent as the grave. He knocked. A stranger
lady-in-waiting--not the one who usually slept near Annunziata's
room--opened the door.
"'"What are my princely consort's wishes at this late, unwonted hour of
the night?" said Annunziata, in a calm, angelically sweet voice, as she
came out, hurriedly attired in a light night-robe. The old man gazed
hard at her--then raised his hands to heaven, and cried--
"'"No! It is impossible, it is impossible!"
"'"What is impossible, my lord?" she asked, amazed at the Doge's
hollow, solemn accents. But Falieri, without answering her, turned to
the lady-in-waiting--
"'"Why is it you are sleeping here to-night instead of Luigia?"
"'"Your Highness," the girl answered, "Luigia wished to exchange duties
with me to-night; she is sleeping in the front chamber on the
staircase."
"The Doge hastened to the room indicated. Luigia opened to his loud
knocking, and when she saw her master's face glowing with anger, and
his eyes flashing fire, she fell on her knees and confessed her fault,
as to which an elegant pair of gentleman's gloves on a chair (their
perfume of ambergris betrayed their owner) left no room for doubt. Much
irritated at Steno's atrocious licentiousness, the Doge wrote to him
next morning, commanding him to avoid all approach to the palace and
the Dogaressa, on pain of banishment. Steno was furious at the
miscarriage of his deep-laid plot, and the shame of banishment from his
idol. And as he could not but see, from his enforced distance, that the
Dogaressa spoke gently and courteously (as was her nature) with other
young members of the Signoria, his envy and the wicked violence of his
passion made him think that she had refused to listen to him because
others had been before him, with better fortune. He had the effrontery
to speak of this loudly and in public.
"'Whether it was that old Falieri heard of these shameless sayings,
that the remembrance of that night came to him in the guise of a
warning hint of destiny, or that, whilst fully convinced of his lady's
uprightness, and while savouring to the full all the comfort and
happiness falling to his share, he nevertheless saw, in a clear light,
the extent of the danger arising from the unnatural relations between
them, the fact was that he became sullen and irritable. All the
thousand demons of jealousy tortured him sorely. He shut Annunziata up
in the inner chambers, and nobody was allowed to see her. Bodoeri took
his grandniece's part, and took Falieri soundly to task. But he would
hear of no alteration in his system of conduct.
"'All this happened shortly before Giovedi Grasso. Now it was the
custom that, on that great Festa, which the populace celebrated on the
Piazza di San Marco, the Dogaressa sat beside the Doge under a canopy
erected over one of the lesser galleries overlooking the Piazza.
Bodoeri reminded him of this, and thought and urged that if he excluded
Annunziata from taking her part in this ceremony, against all use and
wont, it would be in very bad taste, and he would be much ridiculed by
both Signoria and populace for his preposterous jealousy.
"'Old Falieri's sense of honour suddenly woke up. "Think you," he said,
"that I am such an idiotic old fool as to hesitate to shew my precious
jewel, lest I should not be able to keep thievish hands at bay with my
good sword? No, old lord, you are mistaken. To-morrow I and Annunziata
shall cross the Piazza di San Marco, in habits of ceremony; the people
shall see their Dogaressa; and on Giovedi Grasso she shall receive from
the hands of the daring gondolier who lowers himself down to her
through the air the flowers which it is the custom she should so
accept."
"'The old custom which the Doge was alluding to was that, on Giovedi
Grasso, some daring man of the people ascended, by ropes extending from
the water to the top of the tower of San Marco, in a machine in the
form of a little ship, and then shot down, with the speed of an arrow,
to where the Doge and Dogaressa were seated, and handed her a bouquet
of flowers. If the Doge were alone, it was handed to him.
"'Next day the Doge did as he had said he would. Annunziata had to put
on her most gorgeous robes of state and pass, with Falieri, escorted by
the Signoria, and attended by guards and pages of honour, across the
crowded Piazza di San Marco. People shoved and crowded their lives out
almost to get a glance at the beautiful Dogaressa, and, when they saw
her, they thought they had been in Paradise, and beheld the loveliest
of all the angels therein. According to the nature of the Venetians,
amid all the wildest outbreaks of the maddest delight, plenty of
facetious and jocular sayings and rhymes were to be heard, touching
outspokenly enough on the theme of the old Falieri and his young wife.
He seemed to pay no heed to them, however, pacing along as pathetically
as you please at Annunziata's side, divested, for the time, of all
jealousy (although he saw glances of burning admiration bent upon her
on every side), every feature of his face smirking and smiling with
complacency. Before the principal gate of the palace the guards had
some difficulty in dividing the crowd, so that when the Doge passed in
with his consort there were only small groups standing about of the
better dressed citizens, whom it was not so easy to keep out of the
inner court. And, at the moment when the Dogaressa entered this inner
court, a young man, who was standing there in the pillared passage,
with a few other persons, suddenly cried, "Oh, Thou God of Heaven!" and
fell down senseless on the marble pavement. Everybody rushed up and
surrounded him, so that the Dogaressa could not see him. But when he
fell, a glowing dagger-thrust went through her heart; she turned pale,
and tottered; and nothing but the scent bottles of the women who
hurried up to her prevented her from fainting. Old Falieri, shocked and
terrified, wished the young man in question, and this attack of his, at
the devil, and helped his Annunziata--hanging her head, with closed
eyes, over her breast, like a wounded dove--up the stairway, into the
inner chamber.
"'Meanwhile a strange sight was seen by those of the crowd who had
crushed into the inner court of the palace. The young man (who was
supposed to be dead) was about to be carried away, when an old, hideous
beggar-woman, in rags, came hobbling up with loud outcries of sorrow,
elbowed a passage for herself through the thickest of the crowd, and,
on reaching the young man, who was lying insensible, cried--
"'"Let him alone, you fools! let him alone! He is not dead." She
cowered down, took his head into her lap, and stroked his brow, calling
him by the fondest names.
"At sight of the horrible, hideous face of the old hag bending over the
beautiful features of the young man, which seemed to be petrified in
death (whereas a repulsive muscular twitching played over hers); her
dirty rags fluttering above the handsome dress which he had on; her
withered, brown-yellow arms trembling about his brow and his bared
bosom, everyone thrilled with an inward horror. It seemed as though he
was lying in the arms of the grinning form of Death itself. The people
who were standing round crept, one by one, away, and but a very few
were left when at length he opened his eyes with a deep sigh. At the
old woman's request they carried him to the Grand Canal, where he was
placed in a gondola, and, with the old woman, conveyed across the water
to the house which she indicated as his dwelling.
"'I need not explain to you that the young man was Antonio, and the old
woman the beggar who said she was his old nurse.
"'When he had come to his senses, and saw by his bedside the old woman
(who had given him some strengthening drops), he said--after fixing for
a long while a melancholy gaze upon her--in a hollow voice, sustained
with difficulty:
"'"You are with me, Margareta! That is well. Where should I find a
more faithful nurse? Oh! forgive me, mother, that I--a weak, foolish
boy--should have doubted, even for a moment, what you revealed to me.
Yes, yes! you _are_ that Margareta who nursed me. I always knew that it
was so. But the Devil confused my thoughts. I have seen _her_--it was
she--it was she! I told you that there was some dark spell within me,
controlling me in a manner that I could not comprehend. It has come
gleaming out of the darkness now, with noonday brilliance, to
annihilate me, in nameless rapture. I know all now--everything! Was not
Bertuccio Nenolo my foster-father, who brought me up at a country house
near Treviso?"
"'"Ah, yes!" she said; "Bertuccio Nenolo it was, the grand sea-hero,
whom the ocean swallowed, just as he thought to place the laurel-wreath
on his brow."
"'"Do not interrupt me," he continued. "Hear me patiently out. Things
went well with me while I lived with Bertuccio Nenolo. I wore fine
clothes. Whenever I was hungry, the table was always laid. When I had
said my three little prayers, I might go out and roam about in the
woods and meadows as I chose. Close to the house there was a dark wood
of pines, full of perfume and music. I lay down there one evening, as
the sun was sinking, weary with running about, under a great tree, and
gazed up at the blue sky. Whether it was the earthy scent of the herbs
that was the cause I do not know, but my eyes closed, and I sunk into a
dreamy reverie, from which I was roused by the sound of something
striking the ground close beside me, in the grass. I started up. A
child, with the face of an angel, was standing beside me. She looked
down upon me with a heavenly smile, and said in a sweet voice--
"'"How softly and quietly you were sleeping, you dear boy; and yet
death was very near to you--a horrible death."
"'"Close to my breast I saw a small black snake, with its head
shattered. The girl had killed it with the branch of a nut tree just as
it was going to strike at me. I trembled, in a delicious awe. I knew
that angels often came from Heaven to rescue human beings from the
attacks of enemies. I fell on my knees. I raised my clasped hands. "Ah!
you are an angel," I cried, "whom the Lord hath sent to deliver me from
death! "The beautiful creature stretched her arms to me, and whispered,
with rosy blushes suffusing her cheeks--
"'"No, you dear boy! I am not an angel. I am only a girl--a child, like
yourself."
"'"My reverential awe passed into unspeakable rapture. I rose; we
clasped each other in our arms; we pressed our lips upon each other's,
speechless, weeping, sobbing, in delicious, nameless pain. A voice,
clear as silver, culled through the trees, 'Annunziata! Annunziata!'
"'"I must leave you now, you darling boy; my mother is calling me,"
whispered the girl. An unspeakable pain pierced my heart.
"'"Oh, I do so love you!" I sobbed out, while the girl's hot tears fell
burning on my cheeks.
"'"I am so fond of you, darling boy," the girl cried, pressing a
parting kiss on my lips.
"'"Annunziata!" the voice called again, and the girl disappeared among
the trees. Margareta! that was the moment when that mighty love flame
passed into my soul, which will for ever burn on there, always kindling
fresh flame. A few days after this I was driven away from that house.
Father Bluenose said (when I could never cease talking of the angel
that had appeared to me, whose sweet voice I heard in the rustling of
the trees, in the purling of the streams, in the mystic sighs of the
sea) that the girl could have been none other than Nenolo's daughter
Annunziata, who had come with her mother the day before, and had gone
away on the day following. "Oh, mother Margareta! this Annunziata is
the Dogaressa!"
"'Antonio hid his face in his pillow, and sobbed and wept in
inexpressible pain.
"'"Dear Tonino," the old woman answered, "be a man, and resist this
foolish pain bravely. No one should despair in love troubles. To whom
do Hope's golden blossoms bloom but to those who love? At evening one
docs not know what the morning will bring. What we see in dreams comes
to pass in our lives. The castle which floated in the clouds stands,
all in a moment, on the earth, bright and glorious. You do not believe
in my sayings; but my little finger tells me (and somebody else, I dare
say, into the bargain) that the bright banner of Love is coming
fluttering towards you, with gladsome wavings, over the sea. Have
patience, my son Tonino, have patience."
"'In such sort did the old woman try to comfort poor Antonio, to whom
her words sounded like beautiful music. He did not allow her to quit
him any more. The beggar of the Franciscan porch disappeared, and in
her stead people saw Antonio's housekeeper, in good clothes, limping
about San Marco, and buying the household necessaries.
"'Giovedi Grasso came; the fêtes in celebration of it were to be more
brilliant than usual. In the middle of the lesser Piazza di San Marco a
lofty scaffold was erected for a special display of fireworks, of a
sort unseen hitherto, which a Greek, versed in the mysteries of such
matters, was going to exhibit. When the evening came, old Falieri
mounted to the gallery with his beautiful wife, mirroring himself in
the splendour of her loveliness, and of his own happiness, with radiant
glances, challenging all beholders to amazed admiration. Just as he was
about to seat himself on his throne, however, he saw that Michaele
Steno was in the same gallery, so placed that he had the Dogaressa
continually in his sight, and that she must necessarily see him.
Burning with wild anger and mad jealousy, Falieri screamed out
imperiously that Steno must be immediately turned out of that gallery.
Steno raised his arm at Falieri; but the guards forced him away,
gnashing his teeth in fury, and threatening vengeance with frightful
imprecations.
"'Meanwhile Antonio, whom the sight of his beloved Annunziata had set
wholly beside himself, had made his way through the crowd, and, with a
thousand torments in his heart, was pacing alone in the dark night, up
and down beside the sea. He was thinking whether it would not be better
to extinguish the flame which consumed him in the ice-cold waves than
to be slowly tortured to death by inconsolable sorrow and pain. A small
thing would have made him throw himself into the sea. He was standing
on the last of the steps which led down to it, when a voice, coming
from a little boat, cried:
"'"Ah! a fair good evening, Signor Antonio!"
"'In the light reflected from the palace, Antonio recognised the merry
Pietro, one of his former comrades, standing in the boat, feathers and
gold leaf on his shining head-dress, his new striped jacket decked with
gay ribbons, and a great, beautiful bouquet of exquisite flowers in his
hand.
"'"Good evening, Pietro," answered Antonio. "What grand folks are you
going to row to-night, that you are dressed so gaily?"
"'"Well, Signor Antonio," said Pietro, getting up, so that the boat
rocked under him, "I'm going to earn three _zecchini_. I'm bound for
the top of the tower of San Marco, and then down again, to hand those
flowers to the beautiful Dogaressa."
"'"Is not this to risk your neck, comrade Pietro?" Antonio enquired.
"'"Well," said Pietro, "of course one risks one's neck more or less.
And then, _this_ time, one has to go up in the middle of all those
confounded fireworks! The Greek _does_ say that they won't singe a hair
of one's whiskers. Still----" and Pietro gave a shrug.
"'Antonio had got into the boat beside him, and now saw that he was
close to the machinery, and the rope which rose out of the sea. Other
ropes, for moving the machinery, went disappearing off in the darkness.
"'"Listen, comrade Pietro," said Antonio, after a brief silence; "would
it not suit you better to earn ten _zecchini_, and not risk your life?"
"'"Of course," said Pietro, with a hearty laugh.
"'"Well," said Antonio, "here are ten _zecchini_; change clothes with
me, and let me take your place. I'll go aloft instead of you. Do, now,
good comrade Pietro!"
"'Pietro shook his head dubiously, and, weighing the money in his hand,
said: "You are very kind, Signer Antonio, to call a poor devil like me
your comrade still; and you are generous too. I want the money, of
course; but what one risks his neck for is the putting the flowers into
the beautiful Dogaressa's hand, and hearing her sweet voice. But
however, as it is _you_, Signer Antonio, be it as you wish."
"'They changed clothes rapidly, and scarcely was this done when Pietro
cried, "Get into the machine; there goes the signal!"
"At that moment the sea glowed with the flaming reflection of thousands
of flashes, and the shores re-echoed to thousands of crackling
detonations. Antonio flew up, with the rapidity of the storm-wind,
amongst the crackling, hissing fireworks, reached the gallery without
so much as a singe, and hovered before the Dogaressa, She had risen and
come forward; he felt her breath on his cheek--he handed her the
flowers; but, blissful as that instant was with the most unutterable
rapture of heaven, the burning torture of love seized him as with
red-hot arms. Out of his senses--mad with longing, rapture, torture--he
seized the Dogaressa's hand, pressed burning kisses on it, and cried,
in a tone of inconsolable sorrow, "Annunziata!" Then the machinery,
like a blind minister of destiny, tore him away from her, down to the
sea, where he fell into Pietro's arms--who was waiting for him in the
boat--stupefied and exhausted.
"'Meanwhile in the Doge's gallery all was uproar and confusion. A
little written paper had been found, fastened to the Doge's chair, on
which were the following words, in the popular dialect of Venice:
"'"Il Dose Falier della bella muier,
I altri la gode, e lui la mantien."
"'"The Doge, old Falier, sits in state with the fair
Who of love takes her fill, while my lord pays the bill."
"Old Falieri started up in glowing anger, and swore that the direst
punishment should be the lot of the person who committed this insulting
outrage. As he looked round him, his eyes lighted on Michaele Steno
standing below the gallery, on the Piazza, in the full blaze of the
illuminations. He immediately ordered the guards to seize him, as the
culprit. Every one protested against this order; for the Doge, by thus
yielding to his anger, was outraging both the Signoria and the
populace--interfering with the privileges of the former, spoiling the
Festa for the latter. The Signoria quitted their places, Bodoeri alone
remaining, and mingling with the populace, speaking eagerly of the
bitter insult to the Chief of the State, and trying to turn all the
anger upon Steno. Falieri had not been mistaken; for it was the truth
that Steno, when ordered away from the Doge's gallery, had hurried home
and written the paper in question, which he had afterwards fastened to
the Doge's seat when all eyes were fixed on the fireworks, and then
gone away again unnoticed. He had devised this resentful trick very
artfully and maliciously; it struck at the hearts of both Doge and
Dogaressa, wounding them to the core. He at once admitted his deed,
laying all the blame on the Doge, who had insulted him so bitterly in
the first instance. The Signoria had long been dissatisfied with a
chief who, instead of fulfilling the just expectations of the State,
daily gave proof that the fiery, warlike spirit in his chilled and
enfeebled heart was too much like the train of sparks which rush
crackling out of the rocket, but immediately die away into dead,
useless spots of black charcoal. In addition to this, his marriage to
his lovely wife (it had long been discovered that it had only taken
place after his appointment as Doge), and his jealousy, made him much
more the old "_Pantalone_" than the warlike general; so that the
Signoria, nourishing all this poison in their hearts, were more
disposed to side with Steno than with the Doge. The Council of Ten
referred the matter to the Council of Forty, of which Steno was one of
the chiefs. This Council decided that Steno had suffered enough
already, and that a month's banishment was ample punishment for his
offence. And this embittered Falieri afresh, and more strongly against
a Signoria which not only did not take his side, but punished repeated
outrages upon him as offences of the most trivial kind.
"'Now, as it is wont to happen that a lover upon whom has beamed one
single ray of love-fortune goes on dreaming heavenly dreams for days,
weeks, and months, enwrapped in a golden shimmer, so could Antonio
scarce recover from his stupefaction of amazement at his instant of
bliss. The old woman had rated him soundly for his rashness, and
muttered and muttered unceasingly about the utter needlessness of what
he had done. But one day she came in skipping and dancing on her stick,
as she did when under the influence of her strange spell. She paid no
attention to Antonio's questions, went on chuckling and laughing,
lighted a little fire in the fire-place, set a little pan on it, cooked
a salve, throwing in ingredients from all sorts of phials, of various
shapes and colours, put it in a small box, and limped away with it,
snickering and laughing as she went. She did not return till late in
the evening, when she threw herself into an arm-chair, coughing and
wheezing. At last, as if coming to herself from great exhaustion, she
began:
"'"Tonino! Tonino, my dear son, where have I been, do you think? Whom
have I been seeing? Try if you can guess!"
"'Antonio stared at her, full of a strange presentiment.
"'"Well," she continued, "I come from herself, from the beautiful dove,
the lovely Annunziata!"
"'"Do not drive me frantic!" Antonio cried.
"'"What? what?" she went on. "I am always thinking of you, my Tonino!
So, this morning, as I was bargaining in the pillared passage of the
Palace, the people were murmuring about the misfortune which had
befallen the beautiful Dogaressa. I asked and asked, and then a great
uncouth, red-looking fellow, who was leaning against one of the
pillars, chewing a lemon, said: 'Why, a little young scorpion tried his
teeth on the little finger of her left hand, and, you see, that got
into her blood a bit. But Signer Dottore Giovanni Baseggio went up to
her a few minutes ago; he will have the little hand off by this time
finger and all.' And just as the big fellow was saying this a great
scream sounded from the broad staircase, and a little, very little
gentleman came rolling down it like a ball, impelled by the kicks of
the guards, right in amongst our feet, crying and lamenting. The people
gathered round him, laughing loud. He struggled and stamped with his
legs, unable to rise; but the big red fellow ran and lifted the little
doctor, took him in his arms, and made off with him as hard as he could
(he still shrieking and howling) to the canal, where he put him in his
gondola, and rowed away with him. What I thought had happened was, that
when Signor Baseggio was going to put his knife into the pretty little
hand, the Doge had had him kicked downstairs. But I thought something
else besides. 'Quick! quick!' I thought; as quick as I could off home,
make my salve, and be off with it in my hand to the Palace. When I got
there with it, old Falieri was just coming down. He flashed out at me
with 'What is this old hag doing here?' I made a curtsey deep, deep
down to the ground as well as I could, and said I had a medicine which
would cure the beautiful Dogaressa very speedily. When the old fellow
heard that, he gazed steadfastly at me with most terrible eyes, and
stroked his grey beard smooth. Then he seized me by the shoulders, and
dragged me up to her chamber in such a way that I nearly fell down all
my length on the floor of it. Ah, Tonino! there lay the pretty young
creature stretched on her couch, pale as a corpse, sighing and groaning
with pain, and gently complaining, "Ah! I am certain I am poisoned
through and through!" But I set to work in a moment and took off the
stupid doctor's useless plaster. Oh, heaven! the beautiful delicate
hand! swollen, red as blood! Well, well! my ointment cooled it--eased
the pain. 'That is very comforting!' the little dove whispered. 'A
thousand _zecchini_ are yours if you save the Dogaressa,' old Falieri
cried, as he left the room. When I had been sitting there for three
hours, with the little hand in mine, stroking and nursing it, the
little soul awoke from a slumber into which she had fallen, and felt no
further pain. When I had put on a fresh bandage, she looked at me with
eyes sparkling with gladness. Then I said:
"'"Ah, gracious Lady Dogaressa! you once saved a boy's life, when you
killed a serpent which was going to strike him while he was sleeping."
"'"Tonino! you should have seen how her pale cheeks glowed red, as if a
beam of the evening sun had shone in upon them--how her eyes flashed
with sparkling fire."
"'"'Ah! yes! old woman,' she cried. 'I was only a child, at my father's
place in the country. Ah! he was a dear, beautiful boy! Oh, how I think
of him still! It seems to me as if nothing happy had ever come into my
lot since that day.'
"'"Then I spoke of you; told her that you were in Venice that your
heart is still full of all the love and blissfulness of that moment,
and that you risked your life on Giovedi Grasso merely to look into the
eyes of your guardian angel, and put the flowers into her hand."
"'"'Tonino! Tonino!' she cried, enthusiastically; 'I knew it! I knew
it! I felt it! When he pressed his lips on my hand, when he called me
by my name--I did not know what it was that pierced my heart so
strangely. Perhaps it was happiness--but it was pain too. Bring him
here to me, the beautiful boy.'
"'When the old woman said this, Antonio threw himself on his knees, and
cried out like one bereft of his senses:
"'"Oh, Lord of Heaven! only let me not perish _now_, _now_, in my
terrible destiny, until I have seen her and pressed her to my heart."
He implored her to take him to the Dogaressa the very next day. But she
strongly advised him against this, inasmuch as old Falieri went to see
her almost hourly.
"'Many days had elapsed. The Dogaressa was almost completely cured by
the old woman, but it was still impossible to take Antonio to see her.
The old woman comforted him as well as she could, always repeating how
she spoke with the Dogaressa of him whose life she had saved, and who
loved her so fervently. Antonio, tortured by a thousand torments of
longing, passed his time as best he might, in gondolas, and in
wandering about the Piazzas. His steps always led him, involuntarily,
towards the Ducal Palace. One day, by the bridge at the back of it, he
came upon Pietro, leaning on a gaily painted oar near a gondola, which
was dancing on the waves, made fast to a pillar. It was a small
gondola, but beautifully carved and ornamented, and flying the Venetian
standard almost as if it had been the Bucentoro.
"'When Pietro saw his old comrade, he cried out, "A thousand fair
greetings to you, Signor Antonio! Those _zecchini_ of yours brought me
good luck." Antonio, thinking of other matters, asked what the luck
was, and learned nothing less than that Pietro took the Doge and
Dogaressa nearly every evening across to the Giudecca, in this gondola;
for the Doge had a country house there, over against San Giorgio
Maggiore. Antonio gazed hard at Pietro, and burst out quickly:
"'"You can earn other ten _zecchini_, comrade, and more, if you like.
Let me take your place, and row the Doge over!"
"'Pietro thought this could not be managed, as the Doge knew him, and
would trust himself to nobody else. But at length, when Antonio, in all
the wild passion which sparkled from his heart, tortured with a
thousand pains of love, swore that he would spring after the gondola,
and drag it over into the sea, Pietro cried, laughing:
"'"Eh! Signer Antonio, how the Dogaressa's beautiful eyes have turned
that head of yours!" and agreed to take Antonio on board as his
assistant, under the pretext that he was unwell, and unable to do the
heavy work alone. For the Doge never thought the gondola went quick
enough. Antonio hurried away; and scarcely had he got back in a mean
suit of boatman's clothes, with his face stained brown, and a long
drooping moustache, when the Doge and the Dogaressa came down, both
splendidly dressed. "Who is this stranger?" the Doge asked; and it was
only when Pietro swore by all the saints that he was unfit to row that
day without somebody to help him that the Doge could be persuaded to
let Antonio remain.
"'It is sometimes the case that the very excess of happiness so
invigorates the mind that it can control itself, and keep a command
over the fires of its passion, such that they shall not burst forth
visibly. Antonio managed to control himself (though he was so close to
Annunziata that the very hem of her garment touched him) by giving his
whole attention to his rowing, and avoiding any more adventurous
proceeding than an occasional rapid glance at her. Old Falieri chuckled
and laughed, kissed and stroked Annunziata's little white hand, and put
his arm about her slender waist. When they were half-way across, and
magnificent Venice was spread out before them with all her towers and
palaces, he raised his head and said:
"'"Is it not a fine thing, my darling, to be on the sea with her ruler
and consort? Do not be jealous, sweet one, of this Lady of mine who
bears us on her bosom so meekly and submissively. Listen how sweetly
the waves plash and murmur! She is whispering words of love to the
consort who rules her. You, my darling, wear my ring on your finger;
but _she_ cherishes the betrothal ring which I cast to her in the
profoundest depths of her heart.'
"'"How can the cold, treacherous sea be your consort, my noble lord?"
said Annunziata. "I cannot help a shudder at the thought of your being
betrothed to that arrogant, domineering element."
"'Old Falieri laughed; his beard and chin went up and down.
"'"Have no anxiety, little one," he said; "rest in your soft, tender
arms is sweeter than on the icy breast of that consort beneath us; yet
it is fine to float on the sea, with the sea's lord and master."
"'As he spoke, distant music floated across the water, and the tones of
a soft male voice came near, singing the words--
"'"Ah, senza amare andar sulla mare,
Col sposo del mare non può consolare."
"'Other voices joined in, and the words were repeated again and again
till they died away over the sea at last, like the breath of the
breeze. Old Falieri seemed to pay no attention. He was telling
Annunziata, at much length, about the ceremony of the Doge's betrothal
to the sea, when he throws a ring into it from the Bucentoro on
Ascension Day. He spoke of the victories of the Republic, of the time
when the ceremony was first instituted, after the taking of Istria and
Dalmatia, under Peter Urseolus the Second. If the words of the song
made no impression on Falieri, the tale he told was utterly lost on the
Dogaressa. She sate with all her attention fixed upon the sweet tones
floating over the sea. When the song ceased, she gazed before her with
the expression of one who awakes from a dream, and is still striving to
see and understand its images.
"'"_Senza Amare_," she whispered gently. "_Senza Amare_--_non può
consolare_." Tears, like pearls, rose in her heavenly eyes; sighs
heaved her breast, which rose and fell, oppressed. Still chuckling and
laughing, the old Doge landed with her at the verandah of his house
opposite San Giorgio Maggiore, not observing Annunziata, how she stood
beside him in silence, moved by the dim sensations awaking within her,
her gaze, heavy with tears, fixed upon a distant realm. A young man,
dressed as a boatman, blew a shell-shaped horn, whose tones echoed far
over the waters. At this signal another gondola came up, a man,
carrying a sunshade, and a woman appeared, and, attended by them, the
Doge and Dogaressa went into the palace. The second gondola came to the
shore, and from it there landed Bodoeri and other persons, amongst whom
were merchants, artists, and people of the lower classes even. These
followed the Doge.
"'Antonio could scarcely wait for the next evening, for he expected
some private message from his beloved Annunziata. At last, however,
the old woman came hobbling in, set herself down, coughing, in the
arm-chair, clapped her bony, withered hands two or three times, and
cried--
"'"Ah, Tonino! what has happened to our poor little dove? When I went
to her to-day, she was lying on her cushions, with half-shut eyes,
leaning her head on her arm, neither sleeping nor waking, neither ill
nor well. 'What has befallen you, gracious Lady Dogaressa?' I cried.
'Is it your wound, not quite whole yet, which is paining you?' But she
looked at me with eyes such as I had never seen in her, and scarce had
I peeped into these moist moonbeams than they hid themselves behind
silken lashes, as if amongst dark clouds. And then she heaved a deep
sigh, turned her beautiful face to the wall, and whispered softly, very
softly, but so mournfully that it went sharply to my very heart--
"'"'_Amare! Amare! Ah! Senza Amare!_'
"'"I got a little stool and sate down beside her. I began to talk of
_you_. She hid her face in the cushions. Her breathing came quicker and
quicker, till it became sighing. I told her that you had been in the
gondola, disguised; that you were dying of love and longing, and that I
should bring you to her at once.
"'"'No, no! for the love of Christ and the saints, I implore you tell
him I must never see him again--never! Tell him he must leave Venice
immediately.'
"'"'Then my darling Tonino must die,' I interrupted. She fell back in
the most unspeakable pain, and sobbed, in a voice hidden in tears:
"'"'"And I must die too, the bitterest of deaths!' Just then the old
Doge came in, and I was obliged to leave."
"'"She spurns me," cried Antonio, in wild despair. "Away! away! to the
sea!"
"'The old woman cackled and laughed as usual. "You silly child!" she
cried. "Do you not see that she loves you with the most fervent love
and torment that ever fired a woman's heart? Tomorrow night, when it is
dark, I will slip you into the Ducal Palace. You will find me in the
second gallery on the left of the great staircase, and then we shall
see what happens further."
"'When Antonio crept up the great staircase the following evening, it
suddenly struck him that he was on the brink of a monstrous misdeed. He
could scarce mount the stair. He had to lean against a pillar close
before the indicated gallery. Suddenly a bright light shone round him,
and before he could move away, old Bodoeri stood before him, attended
by some domestics carrying torches. Bodoeri looked him in the face, and
said--"Ha! you are Antonio; I knew you were to be brought here. You
have only to follow me." Antonio, convinced that his meeting with the
Dogaressa had got wind, followed, with some hesitation. What was his
astonishment when, as soon as they had reached a chamber at some
distance, Bodoeri embraced him, and told him of an important duty which
was allotted to him that night, and which he was to execute with
courage and determination. But his astonishment turned to dread and
horror when he learned that a conspiracy had been formed against the
Signoria, with the Doge himself at its head, and that it had been
arranged, at Falieri's house at the Giuclecca, that on that very night
the Signoria should be overthrown, and Falieri elected Sovereign Duke
of Venice.
"Antonio gazed at Bodoeri in speechless amazement. Bodoeri took the
youth's silence to be hesitation as to taking part in this fell deed,
and cried, in anger--
"'"Cowardly fool! you cannot now get out of this place. You must either
die or take up arms with us. But, before you decide, speak with _him_."
"'A tall, noble form now advanced from the dark background of the
chamber. As soon as Antonio recognised the features of this man's face
he fell on his knees crying, "Oh, my father and benefactor, Bertuccio
Nonolo!"
"'Nenolo raised him, took him in his arms, and said, in gentle tones--
"'"Yes, I am that Bertuccio Nenolo whom you believed to be buried in
the ocean depths, and who has just escaped from the captivity in which
he has been held by Morbassan; the same Bertuccio Nenolo who adopted
you, and could never have supposed that the silly servants whom Bodoeri
sent to take possession of the house (which he had bought) would have
driven you out into the world. Blind youth! do you hesitate to take up
arms against the despotic caste which murdered your father? Go to the
Fontego, and you will see the stains of your father's blood on the
stones of its flooring to this hour. When the Signoria made over the
building which you know by the name of the Fontego to the German
merchants, every one to whom chambers in it were allotted was forbidden
to take his keys away with him when he went on any journey. This law
your father contravened, and, by so doing, had rendered himself liable
to severe punishment. But when his chambers were opened, on his return,
a chest full of counterfeit Venetian money was found among his effects.
It was in vain that he protested his innocence; it was but too clear
that some malicious devil or other--very probably the Fontegaro
himself--had placed the chest there, with a view to your father's
destruction. The inexorable judges, satisfied with the evidence that
the chest had been found in your father's rooms, sentenced him to
death. He was executed in the court of the Fontego; and you would have
been no more if the faithful Margareta had not saved you. I, being your
father's most faithful friend, adopted you; and your father's name was
concealed from you that you might not, yourself, betray yourself to the
Signoria. But now, Anton Dalbirger, the time has come. Take up arms,
and avenge your father's shameful end."
"'Antonio, inspired by revenge, swore fidelity to the conspirators.
It is known that an insult which Bertuccio Nenolo received from
Dandulo--who was at the head of the naval armaments--(he struck him on
the face during an argument)--moved him to conspire, with his
son-in-law, against the Signoria. Both Nenolo and Bodoeri desired that
Falieri should be raised to the supreme power, that they might rise
along with him. The arrangement was, that a rumour should be circulated
that the Genoese fleet was close outside the Lagoons; and that then the
great bell of San Marco should be tolled, in the night, to call the
populace to an imaginary defence. At this signal, the conspirators--who
were numerous, and in all quarters of the city--were to possess
themselves of the Piazza di San Marco and the principal parts of the
place, put the chiefs of the Signoria to death, and proclaim Falieri
the sovereign ruler of Venice. But it was not the will of Heaven that
this murderous project should be accomplished, and the fundamental
constitution of the State trodden under foot by aid Falieri's arrogant
pride. The meetings at the Doge's house had not escaped the notice of
the Council of Ten, although it had been impossible to learn anything
with certainty. One of the conspirators, a furrier from Pisa, had
qualms of conscience; he wished to save his friend Niccolò Leoni, a
member of the Council of Ten. He went to him in the evening twilight,
and implored him not to leave his house that night, whatever happened.
Leoni would not let the furrier go, and managed to extract from him an
account of the whole project. In company with Giovanni Gradenigo and
Marco Cornaro, he assembled the Council of Ten at San Salvador; and
there, in less than three hours, measures were concerted for the
thwarting of all the proceedings of the conspirators.
"The duty allotted to Antonio was to go, with a troop, to San Marco,
and set the bell ringing. But when he arrived there he found the
building strongly occupied by troops from the arsenal, who stopped him
with their halberds. His followers dispersed, and he himself escaped in
the darkness. Close behind him he heard the steps of a man pursuing
him; then he felt himself seized. As he was about to run his captor
through the body, he suddenly, in the dim light, recognized him to be
Pietro, who cried--
"'"Save yourself, Antonio! get into my gondola. Everything is
discovered. Bodoeri and Nenolo are in the hands of the Signoria. The
Palace doors are guarded; the Doge is shut up in his rooms, watched
like a criminal by his own faithless body-guard. Away! away!"
"'Half unconscious, Antonio suffered himself to be slipped into the
gondola. There were distant voices, clangour of weapons, one or two
cries of terror, and then, with the deepest darkness of the night,
heavy, soundless silence.
"'Next morning the populace, broken with deadly fear, saw a terrible
spectacle, which made the blood in all veins run cold. During the night
the Council of Ten had passed sentence of death on all of the
conspirators who had been taken; they were strangled, and thrown down
to the Lesser Piazza di San Marco, from the gallery whence the Doge
used to witness the festivities--alas! where Antonio had hovered before
the beautiful Dogaressa when he handed her the flowers. Among the
bodies were those of Marino Bodoeri and Bertuccio Nenolo. Two days
afterwards old Marino Falieri was sentenced by the Council of Ten, and
executed on the so-called Giant Staircase of the Palace.
"'Antonio had been creeping about, almost unconscious. He was not
apprehended, for no one knew that he was one of the conspirators. When
he saw Falieri's grey head fall, he awoke as from a heavy dream. With a
cry of the wildest terror, and a shout of "Annunziata!" he burst into
the Palace and ran through the galleries. No one stopped him. The
guards stared at him, like men stupefied with the horrors which had
been going on. The old woman came limping up to meet him, weeping, and
loudly lamenting. She took him by the hand. In a few paces he was in
Annunziata's chambers. She was lying senseless on the couch.
"'Antonio rushed to her, covered her hands with glowing kisses, and
called her by the fondest and tenderest names. Slowly she opened her
beautiful eyes. She saw Antonio; but at first it cost her an effort to
realise who he was. But suddenly she rose, put both her arms about him,
pressed him to her heart, bedewed him with hot tears, kissed his
cheeks, his lips.
"'"Antonio!" she cried, "my Antonio, I cannot tell you how I love you!
There is still a heaven here on earth! What are the deaths of my
father, my uncle, my husband, in comparison with your love! Oh, come,
let us fly from this scene of murder!"
"'With bitterest sorrow and most fervent love, with thousand kisses and
thousand tears, they vowed eternal truth, and forgot the frightful
events of that terrible time. Turning their sight from earth, they
raised their eyes and looked into the heaven of love which had opened
to them. The old woman advised flight to Chiozza. Antonio wished to
gain the mainland, and thence reach his own country. Friend Pietro
found him a boat, and it was waiting for them at the bridge behind the
Palace. When it was night, Annunziata, deeply cloaked, crept down the
steps with her lover and old Margareta, whose cloak was filled with
jewel cases. They got on board; Antonio took the oars and away they
fled, at a rapid, vigorous rate. Before them upon the waters the bright
moonlight danced, like a gladsome herald of Love.
"'When they reached the open sea a strange hissing and whistling began
to make itself heard in the air overhead; dark shadows gathered and
came over the bright face of the moon, hanging like gloomy shrouds. The
dancing shimmer the gleaming herald of Love--sank down into the dark
depths, pregnant with hollow thunders. A storm arose, and, in angry
rage, drove dark clouds before it. The boat laboured violently, and
plunged up and down.
"'"Help! Oh Lord of Heaven!" the old woman screamed. Antonio, unable to
work the oars, clasped Annunziata to his heart. Animated by his burning
kisses, she pressed him to her heart in the most blissful rapture. "Oh,
my Antonio!" "Oh, my Annunziata!" they cried, heedless of the raging
tempest. Then the sea the jealous widow of beheaded Falieri--lifted up
her foaming billows, like great, gigantic arms, grasped the lovers, and
dragged them, with the old woman, down, down, to the fathomless abyss.'
"When the man in the cloak had thus ended his tale, he rose quickly,
and left the room with strong, rapid steps. The friends looked after
him in speechless amazement, and then went back again to examine the
picture. The Doge still chuckled at them, in silly ostentation, and
senile vanity. But when they looked closely into the face of the
beautiful Annunziata, they saw that the shadow of a sorrow--unknown as
yet, merely in the form of a presentiment--was upon her lily brow; that
longing love-dreams shone under her dark eyelashes, and hovered about
her beautiful lips. From the distant sea a hostile power seemed to
threaten destruction and death; and from the misty clouds which lay
over San Marco, and partly concealed it, the deeper meaning of the
picture slowly dawned upon them, whilst all the sorrow of the love-tale
of Antonio and Annunziata filled their hearts with sweet awe."
The friends applauded this story, and unanimously voted that Ottmar had
utilised, in true Serapiontic fashion, the veracious history of the
proud and unfortunate Doge, Marino Falieri.
"He spared himself no trouble over writing it," said Lothair. "For,
besides being inspired to it by Kolbe's picture, Le Bret's 'History of
Venice' was always open on his table, and he had views of the streets
and palaces of Venice hanging all about his room; heaven only knows
where he had got hold of them all. That is why the story is so bright
with local colouring."
Midnight having tolled, the friends separated in the most genial frame
of mind, and in true Serapiontic manner.
* * * * *
SECTION FOURTH.
Vincent and Sylvester having joined the Brotherhood, Lothair delivered
a long harangue to them, in which he set forth, in most entertaining
fashion, at great length, and with much minuteness, the duties
incumbent upon a true Serapion Brother. "And now," he concluded, "give
me your solemn word, dear and worthy novices of our Order, confirming
the same by solemn handgrip, that you will faithfully observe and
follow the rule of Saint Serapion; that is to say, that you will, at
all times, and in all circumstances, devote your every endeavour to
be--at the meetings of the Brotherhood--as genial, witty, kindly, and
sympathetic as may be in your power."
"I, for my part," said Vincent, "enter into this undertaking with all
my heart. I mean to pay over my entire stock of brains and imagination
into the coffers of the Brotherhood; expecting to be therefrom, at
all times, and on all occasions, not only fed and supported, but
actually crammed. On every occasion when I purpose to come among you I
shall--according to the proverb--give my ape a full allowance of sugar,
that he may be sufficiently primed for the execution of the merriest
capers. And, inasmuch as our patron saint has acquired his fame and
glory from a decided _quantum_ of insanity, I shall copy him, in this
respect, to the utmost of my power, so that the Brotherhood may never
have to complain of an absence of this important element of their
being. I am prepared, if that should be your desire, to dish you up a
most varied and extensive assortment of the most interesting 'fixed
ideas.' I can imagine myself to be a Roman emperor, like Professor
Titel; or a cardinal, like Father Scambati. I can believe, like the
woman mentioned by Trallianus, that the universe is upheld upon my left
thumb; or that my nose is made of glass, and irradiates the walls and
the ceiling with beautiful prismatic colours. Also, I can think I am a
looking-glass, like the little Scotchman, Donald Munro, and reflect,
and copy all the glances, grimaces, and postures of those who look into
my face. More than this, I feel capable of convincing myself, as the
Chevalier D'Epernay did, that my anima sensitiva has shorn my head
bare, so that I shall merely have to rely upon the hair or two left on
my lips to inspire you with a certain amount of respect. As true
Serapion brethren, you will know how to indulge, and give due honour to
all these little delusions. And pray don't think of curing me, by
applying the remedies recommended by Boerhaave, Mercurialis, Antius of
Amyda, Friedrich Kraft, and Herr Richter; inasmuch as they all
prescribe a considerable amount of castration, or, at all events,
gentle slapping of the face, and boxing of the ears. And the fact is,
without doubt, that a certain amount of threshing has a beneficial
effect on both heart and mind, and awakens the activity of some of the
most important functions of the body. I just ask you, what would have
become of us--should we ever have learnt a single one of our lessons,
in the fifth form, but for a due amount of threshing? I recollect quite
well that when, at the age of twelve, I read the 'Sorrows of Werther,'
I went off and immediately fell in love with a young lady of thirteen,
and wanted to shoot myself. Luckily my father cured me of this
super-excitation of my heart on the system of treatment recommended by
Rhases and Valuscus de Taranta, who prescribed castigation as a
sovereign remedy for love. At the same time the old gentleman shed
warm, paternal tears of joy on discovering that I was not an ass: for
experience proves that love, in said animal, increases in proportion as
he is beaten."
"Oh, most delightful of all fabulists!" cried Theodore. "How you are
caprioling and curvetting! Please to go on doing so always! Flash your
lightnings in amongst us whenever the atmosphere is growing sultry, in
all the quaintest of your phrases. And, above all, freshen our
Sylvester up a little; for, after his usual wont, he has not uttered a
single word as yet."
"The fact is," said Ottmar, "that I can scarcely convince myself that
it really _is_ Sylvester who is sitting in that chair, smiling at us so
benignantly. It seems to me almost incredible that he can have come
away, so soon from his country dwelling, which he so much preferred to
our city life; and I keep believing that he is merely some pleasing
apparition, presently to vanish from our sight amongst those clouds
which he is blowing from his cigar."
"Heaven forefend!" cried Sylvester, laughing. "Do you suppose that a
quiet, happy personage, such as I am, has assumed the form of an
enchanter, and is deluding honest folks with his mere _simulacrum_? Do
you think I have anything of the Philadelphia, or the Swedenborg about
me? If you blame me for my silence, Theodore, let me say that I am
sparing my breath because I want to read you a story, suggested to me
by one of Kolbe's pictures, which I wrote during my long stay in the
country. If it surprises you, Ottmar, that I have come back here,
although I am so fond of the quiet and the leisure of the country,
remember that, though the constant turmoil, and the endless, empty
business of this great town are uncongenial to my whole nature, still,
if I am to turn my being a poet and a writer to any account, I stand in
need of many incitements which I can meet with here only. The tale
which I wish to read to you--and which I believe to possess a certain
amount of merit--would never have been written if I had not seen
Kolbe's picture at the Exhibition, and then worked the affair out in
the quiet of the country."
"Sylvester is right," said Lothair, "in seeking--as a writer of plays
and tales--suggestions and incitements in the whirl of city life, and
then in giving quiet leisure to his mind, in which to work those
suggestions out. Of course he might have seen the picture in the
country; but he would not have seen, there, the living characters whom
it inspired with life and movement, and into whom the people portrayed
in the picture passed and entered. A poet such as he is ought not to
retire into solitude. He ought to live in the most stirring and varied
society, so as to see, and grasp, its endlessly manifold aspects."
"Ha!" cried Vincent, "as Jaques, in 'As You Like It,' calls out when he
sees Touchstone,
'A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' the forest,
A motley fool; oh, lamentable world!'
So I cry 'a poet! a poet! I met a poet! He came stumbling out of the
third wineshop at high noon, looked up with his moist, drunken eyes at
the sun, and cried, in his inspiration "Oh, sweet, gentle moon, how
fall thy rays upon my heart, illumining, in marvellous sort, that
universe which lives and moves within this soul of mine. Lead on before
me, thou brave luminary, that I may steer my course to where experience
of life and knowledge of mankind stream towards my ken, in rich
abundance, for advantageous employment! Character-studies, lifelike
drawing--not possible without living models! Glorious drink! Noble,
splendid ardour, opening the heart and kindling the fancy! Yes, that
man eating sausages in there lives within my soul! He is tall and lean,
has on a blue frock coat with gilt buttons, English boots, takes snuff
out of a black lacquered snuff-box, speaks German fluently, and is
consequently a German, in spite of his boots and the Italian sausages;
a glorious, lifeful German character for my next novel! But, more
knowledge of mankind! More character!"' And with that my poet sailed,
with a fair wind, into the harbour of the fourth wineshop."
"Stop! you Oliver Martext," cried Lothair. "I call you so, because you
have completely marred _my_ text. I know well enough what you are
driving at with your poet who collects experience of life in wineshops,
and by his man in the blue frock coat; and I don't care to expatiate
further on the Thema. But there are other, very different, people too,
who think that, when they have accurately described the personality
of this or that unimportant 'subject' they have drawn a strikingly
life-like character. The peculiar pigtail which this or that old man
wears--the colours in which this or that girl dresses--are not enough.
It requires a certain special faculty, and a penetrating eye, to see
the forms of life in their deeper individuality. And even this seeing
is not enough. It is the poet's spirit--that spirit which dwells within
every true poet--which brings the pictures which he has seen, in their
endlessly, infinitely, varied changefulness, as they have shown
themselves to him--on to the stage. And then, by a process like
chemical precipitation, those forms appear as _substrata_ belonging to
life and the world in their complete extension. Such are those
wonderful characters--wholly unconnected with place and time--whom
every one knows, and looks upon as friends, who move on amongst us for
ever, in perfect fulness of life. Need I instance Sancho Panza and
Falstaff? And as you, Vincent, spoke of a blue frock coat, it is rather
curious that forms, which a true poet has drawn in the way I have just
instanced, appear to _costume_ themselves of their own accord, just in
the way most appropriate to their characters."
"Yes," said Ottmar, "and that is the case in actual life as well.
Doubtless we have all felt most distinctly, with respect to characters
we have met, that those people could not have been dressed differently,
to be in keeping with their inner being; that such and such a man could
not have had on another sort of hat or coat than he actually had. That
this is the case is not so wonderful, as that we should see that it is
so."
"But don't you think it is only because we notice it, that it happens?"
interrupted Cyprian.
"Oh! unapproachable subtlety!" cried Vincent.
"I cordially agree with all that Lothair has maintained on this
subject," cried Sylvester. "Don't forget, however, that--besides our
meetings and conversations--there is another source of enjoyment which
I miss in the country--one which greatly penetrates and elevates me. I
mean the musical performances, the renderings of the glorious works of
musicians. This very day I heard Beethoven's Mass in C in the Catholic
Church. It made a deep impression on me."
"And that," said Cyprian, moodily, "does not surprise me, just because
to have to do without things of the kind makes one enjoy them the more.
Hunger is the best sauce. To speak candidly, Beethoven--in his Mass in
C--has given us a very charming, I may, perhaps, say a genial, work;
but it is not a Mass. Where is the strict ecclesiastical style?"
"I know, Cyprian," said Theodore, "you only care for the old composers,
and are horrified at the sight of a black note in a church-score; and
that you are unjustly strict and severe in your opinions about the more
modern church music."
"At the same time," said Lothair, "I think there is too much of the
jubilant--of earthly rejoicing--in Beethoven's Mass. I should very much
like to know wherein the utter diverseness of the spirit in which the
masters have composed the different portion of the Mass lies; they
contrast with each other in their treatment of it so completely!"
"Exactly," said Sylvester, "that is what has so often struck me, too,
as inexplicable. One would suppose, for example, that the words,
'_Benedictus qui venit in nomine domini_' could only be set in the same
sort of pious, tranquil style. Yet, I not only know that they have been
set in the most diverse manners by the greatest masters, but also
that--penetrated by the most diverse feelings--I can never think the
setting of them, by this or by the other great writer, to be in any way
a mistake. Theodore might, perhaps, enlighten us to this."
"I should be glad to do so as far as I can," said Theodore, "but I
should have to deliver a little lecture on the subject, and I fear it
would be too serious to fit well in with the facetious tone in which
our conversation began."
"It is true Serapionism that jest and earnest should alternate," said
Ottmar; "so please to deliver yourself confidently, Theodore, on a
subject in which we are all so deeply interested; except, perhaps,
Vincent, who knows nothing about music."
Theodore accordingly went on, as follows:
"Prayer and worship doubtless affect the mind according to its
predominant, or even momentary, mood, or tuning--as this results from
physical or mental well-being, comfort, happiness, or suffering. So
that, at one time, prayer or worship is inward contrition--even to
self-despite and shame, grovelling in the dust before the lightnings of
the Lord of the worlds, angry with the sinner; and, at another time,
vigorous elevation towards the infinite; child-like trust in the
mercy of the Omnipotent, anticipation of the promised bliss. The
words of the Mass present--in their cycle--merely the occasion--the
opportunity--or, at highest, the _clue_, for devotion, and will awaken
the due concord in the soul, according to its frame of thought at the
time. In the Kyrie, God's mercy is implored; the Gloria celebrates His
omnipotence and majesty; the Credo gives expression to the faith on
which the pious soul firmly builds; and after--in the Sanctus and the
Benedictus--the holiness of God has been exalted, and blessings
promised to those who approach Him in confident faith; prayer is
offered, in the Agnus and the Dona, to the Mediator, that He may send
down His peace and gladness to the believing soul. Now even (to begin
with), on account of this very universality (which in no way encroaches
upon the inner significance, and the deeper application which each one
lays into it, according to his own peculiar condition of mind and
conscience), the text lends and adapts itself to the most infinite
variety of musical treatment; and this is the reason why there are
Kyries, Glorias, &c., so widely dissimilar in character, tone, and the
rest. For instance, one has but to compare the Kyries in Haydn's Masses
in C major and D minor; also his Benedictuses. From this it follows
that the composer who (as ought always to be the case) sets to work,
inspired with true devoutness, to write a Mass, will let the individual
religious attunement of his own mind predominate (all the words being
ready to adapt themselves to that); not suffering himself to be led
away in the Miserere, the Gloria, Qui Tollis, and so forth, into a
many-tinted medley of the most heart-rending sorrow of the contrite
heart, with jubilant clangour and jingle. All works of the latter sort,
which, in recent times, there have been numbers of, carpentered
together in the most frivolous fashion, are abortions, engendered by
impure minds; and I reject them just as unhesitatingly as Cyprian does.
But I render deep admiration to the glorious church compositions of
Michael and Joseph Haydn, Hasse, Neumann, and others, not forgetting
the old works of the pious Italian masters, Leo, Durante, Benevoli,
Perli, and others, whose lofty, beautiful, noble simplicity, whose
wonderful power of impressing the very depths of the soul by their
simple modulations, wholly devoid of strikingness of display, seem to
constitute an art which is altogether lost in recent (and _most_
recent,) times. Without desiring to adhere to the early, primitive,
pure church style, merely because what is holy disdains the varied
dress of mundane niceties of subtlety, one cannot--to begin with--doubt
that _simple_ music has a better effect, musically speaking, in
churches, than that which is elaborate; for the more rapidly notes
succeed one another the more they are lost in the lofty spaces of
buildings, so that the whole effect becomes confused and
unintelligible. Hence, in a measure, the grand effect of Chorales in
church. I unconditionally agree with you, Cyprian, as to the
superiority of the noble church music of ancient times over that
of recent date, just on account of its constantly maintaining its
truly holy style. At the same time, I think that the richness and
fulness which music has gained in more recent times--chiefly by the
introduction of instruments--should be made use of in churches, not to
produce mere idle display, but in a noble and worthy manner. Perhaps
the bold simile--that the old church music of the Italians holds
somewhat the same relation to that of the more modern Germans as Saint
Peter's at Rome holds to Strasburg Cathedral--may not be inapt. The
grandiose proportions of Saint Peter's elevate the mind, because it
finds them commensurable; but the beholder gazes with a strange inward
disquiet upon the Strasburg Minster, as it soars aloft in the most
daring curves, and the most wondrous interfacings of varied, fantastic
forms and ornamentation. And this very unrest awakens a sense of the
Unknown, the Marvellous; and the spirit readily yields itself to this
dream, in which it seems to recognise the Super-earthly, the Unending.
Now this is exactly the effect of that purely romantic element which
pervades Mozart and Haydn's compositions. It is easy to see that it
would not, now, be a very simple matter for a composer to write a
church composition in the lofty, simple style of the old Italians.
Without saying that the real, pious faith which gave to those masters
the power to proclaim the holiest of the holy in those earnest, noble
strains may probably seldom dwell in the hearts of artists in more
modern times, it is enough to refer to that incapacity which results
from the lack of true genius, and, similarly, from the absence of
self-renunciation. Is it not in the most absolute simplicity that real
genius plies its pinions the most wonderfully? But who does not
take delight in letting the treasure which he possesses glitter
before the eyes of all? Who is content with the approval of the
rare _knowers_--the few in whose eyes that which is truly good and
successful work is the more precious--or rather, the only precious,
work? The reason why there is scarcely what can be termed 'a style'
remaining, is that people have everywhere taken to employing the same
means of expression. We often hear solemn Themas stalking majestically
along in comic operas, playful little ditties in opera seria, and
masses and oratorios of operatic cut in the churches. Now the proper
application--ecclesiastically--of musical figuration, and all the
resources of instrumentation, demands a rare degree of genius, and an
exceptional profundity of intellect. Mozart--gallant and courtier-like
as he is in his two well-known Masses in C major--has, nevertheless,
solved this problem magnificently in his Requiem. For that is romantic
sacred music, proceeding from the depths of the master's heart and
soul; and I have no need to say how finely Haydn, too, speaks in his
Masses of the highest and holiest things; although he cannot be
acquitted of a good deal of trifling--writing for writing's sake--here
and there. As soon as I knew that Beethoven had written a Mass, and
before I had heard or read a note of it, I felt certain that, as
regards the style and general moulding, the master had taken old Joseph
Haydn as his model. Yet I found I was wrong, as regards the manner in
which he had apprehended the text of the Mass. His genius generally
prefers to employ the levers of awe and terror; so, thought I, the
vision of the super-earthly will have filled his soul with awe, and
this is what he will speak out in his music. On the contrary, the whole
work expresses a mind filled with childlike clearness and happiness,
which, building on its purity, confides in faith on the grace of God,
and prays to Him as to a father who wills the best for his children,
and hears their petitions. From this point of view, the general
character of the composition, its inner structure, and intelligent
instrumentation, are quite worthy of the master's genius, when
considered as a composition meant to be employed in the service of the
Church."
"Still," urged Cyprian, "that point of view is, in my opinion, a wrong
one altogether, capable of leading to desecration of the highest
things. Let me explain my views about church music, and you will see
that I am, at all events, clear on the subject in my own mind.
What I think is, that no art proceeds so thoroughly out of the
spiritualization of mankind, and demands such pure and spiritual modes
and means of expression, as music. The sense of the existence of what
is highest and holiest, of that spiritual power which kindles the life
of all nature, utters itself audibly in music, which--(at all events
vocal music)--is the expression of the highest fulness of existence,
_i.e._, the praise of the Creator. Wherefore, as regards its special
inner life, music is an act of religious service, and its fountain-head
is to be sought, and to be found, only in religion in the Church.
Passing thence onwards into life, ever richer and mightier, music
poured forth its inexhaustible treasures over mankind, so that even the
secular (or, as it is sometimes styled, the 'profane') might, in
childlike delight, adorn itself in that splendour wherewith music
illuminated life, through and through, even in all its little, petty,
mundane relations. But, when thus adorned, even the secular appeared to
be longing for the heavenly, higher realm, and striving to enter in
amidst its phenomena. Just by reason of this, its special peculiarity
of nature, music could not be the property of the antique world, where
everything proceeded from corporalization manifest to the senses; it
had to be reserved for more modern times. The two opposite artistic
poles of Heathenism and Christianity are Sculpture and Music.
Christianity destroyed the former and created the latter (along with
painting, which is nearest akin to it). In painting, the ancients knew
neither perspective nor colouring; in music, neither melody nor harmony
(I use the word 'melody' here in its highest sense, to express an
uttering of inward feeling, without reference to words and their
rhythmic relationships). But beyond this particular imperfection, which
may perhaps indicate only the narrower footing upon which music and
painting at that time stood, the germs of those arts could not develop
themselves in that unfruitful soil; not until the advent of
Christianity could they grow gloriously, and bring forth flowers and
fruit in luxurious profusion. Both music and painting maintained their
place only in appearance in the antique world; they were kept down by
the power of sculpture, or rather they could take no adequate form amid
the mighty masses of sculpture. Both those arts were not in the least
what we now call 'music' and 'painting.' Just so sculpture disappeared
from bodily life by means of the Christian tendency which strives
against all corporeal embodiment to the senses, volatilising this into
what is spiritual. But the very earliest germ of the music of the
present day (in which was enclosed a holy mystery, solveable only by
the Christian world), could serve the ancients only according to its
essential characteristic specialty, namely, as religious cult. For
nothing else were, in those earliest times, their dramas, which
were festal representations of the joys and sorrows of a god.
The declamation of those dramas was supported by instrumental
accompaniments, and even this fact proves that the music of the
ancients was purely rhythmic, were it not otherwise demonstrable that
(as I have said already) melody and harmony, the two pivots on which
our modern music moves, were quite unknown to them. Therefore, though
Ambrosius, and afterwards Gregory, based Christian hymns, about the
year 1591, on ancient hymns, and that we come upon the traces of that
purely rhythmic music in what are called the 'Canto Fermo' and the
'Antiphones,' this is nothing but that they made use of germs which had
been handed down to them. And it is certain that a deeper study of that
ancient music can interest only the curious antiquary. Whereas, for the
practical musician, the most sacred depths of his glorious, truly
Christian art were laid open only when Christianity was shining in its
brightest splendour in Italy, and the mighty masters, in the
consecration of the highest inspiration, proclaimed the holiest
mysteries of religion, in tones before unheard. It is noticeable that,
not long afterwards, when Guido D'Arezzo had penetrated deeper into the
mysteries of the musical art, that art was misunderstood by the
uncomprehending, and thought to be a subject for mathematical
speculation, so that its true essence was utterly misapprehended, just
as it was barely commencing to unfold itself. The marvellous tones of
this spiritual language were awakened, and went sounding forth over the
world. The means of seizing them and holding them fast were discovered.
The 'hieroglyphics' of music (consisting as it does of an intertwining
of melody and harmony) were invented; I mean, the mode of writing down
music in notes. But soon this mode of indication passed cm rent for the
tiling indicated; the masters sunk themselves in harmonic subtleties,
and in this manner music, distorted into a speculative science, would
have ceased to be music when those subtleties should have attained
their highest development. Worship was desecrated by that which was
upon it under the name if music, although, to the heart penetrated by
that holy art, music itself was alone the true 'worship.' So that there
could be but a brief contest, which ended by the glorious victory of an
eternal verity over the untrue. Just when Pope Marcellus the Second was
on the point of expelling all music from the Church, and so depriving
divine worship of its most glorious adornment, the great Master
Palestrina revealed to him the sacred mystery and wonder of the
tone-art in its most individual and specially characteristic qualities.
And from that time music became the most specific feature of the 'Cultus'
of the Catholic Church. Thus it was that at that time the most profound
comprehension of the true inward life of music dawned and brightened in
the masters' pious hearts, and their inimitable, immortal compositions
streamed from their souls in holy inspiration. You, Theodore, well know
that the Mass for six voices, which Palestrina at that time--I think it
was in 1555--composed, in order that the angry Pontiff might hear real
music, became widely known by the title of 'Missa Papae Marcelli.' With
Palestrina commenced, indisputably, the most glorious era of ancient
ecclesiastical music, and, consequently, of all music. This lasted for
nearly two hundred years, maintaining its pristine pious dignity and
forcibility, although it cannot be denied that, even in the first
century after Palestrina, that lofty, inimitable simplicity and dignity
lost itself to some extent in a certain 'elegance' which the composers
began to aim at. What a master is Palestrina! Without the smallest
ornament, without anything approaching melodic sweep, his works consist
mainly of chords of the simplest kind, succeeding each other in perfect
concords of chords of the triad, by the forcibility and the boldness of
which consonances the mind is grasped with indescribable might, and
lifted up to the very highest love: _i.e._, the attunement and
consonance of the spiritual with nature (as promised to the Christian),
speaks itself out in the _chord_, which, consequently, came first into
existence under the Christian 'dispensation.' So that the chord, and
harmony (in contradistinction to mere melody), are the images and
expressions of spiritual union, and _communion_ of union, and
incorporation with the eternal, the ideal, which thrones above us, and
yet encompasses and surrounds us. Therefore the holiest, purest, most
ecclesiastical music must be that which flows from the soul as the
uncontaminated expression of the love in question, disregarding, nay
despising, all that is mundane. And such are Palestrina's simple,
majestic compositions, which, conceived in the highest fervour of piety
and love, proclaim the godlike with might and glory. To his music truly
applies what the Italians apply to the writings of many composers who
are shallow and miserable compared to him; it is, of a truth, 'music of
another world'--_musica dell' altro mondo_. Successions of consonant
perfect chords of the triad have nowadays become so strange and
unfamiliar to us, in our effeminacy, that many an one whose soul is
wholly closed to the holy sees nothing in them but helpless
unskilfulness of technical construction. But, looking away from those
higher considerations, and adverting merely to what we are used to call
'effect,' it is clear as day (as you said already, Theodore), that, in
a church, in a great resonant building, everything in the nature of the
blending of chord with chord by means of 'transition notes,' weakens
the power of the music. In Palestrina's music each chord strikes upon
the listener with all its force; the most elaborate modulations could
never affect the mind as do those bold, weighty chords, which burst
upon us like dazzling beams of light. Palestrina is simple, true,
childlike in piety; as strong and mighty, as genuinely Christian in his
works as are, in painting, Pietro of Cortona and Albrecht Duerer. For
him composition was an act of religion. But I do not forget the great
masters Caldara, Barnabei, Scarlatti, Marcello, Lotti, Porpora,
Bernardo, Leo, Valotti, and others, who all kept themselves simple,
dignified, and forcible. Vividly, at this moment, awakes in me the
remembrance of that Mass of Alessandro Scarlatti's for seven voices,
'Alla Capella,' which you, Theodore, once had sung by your own good
pupils under your own conductorship. It is a model specimen of the
true, grand, and powerful ecclesiastical style, although it has a
commencement of the melodic 'swing' which music had acquired by the
time it was written, 1705."
"And the mighty Haendel," said Theodore, "the inimitable Hasse, the
profound and thoughtful Sebastian Bach; have you not a thought for
them?"
"Certainly," answered Cyprian; "I reckon them among the sacred bands
whose hearts were strengthened by the power of faith and love. It was
this power which brought to them that inspiration by virtue of which
they entered into communion with the Highest, and were fired to those
works which serve not worldly aims, but are, of necessity, nothing but
praise of, and honour to, the loftiest things. This is why those works
of theirs bear the impress of veracious truth, and why no anxious
striving after 'effect,' no laboured apings of other things, defile and
desecrate that of the Heavenly which has revealed itself to them, pure,
and clear, and undefiled. This is why there is, in their writings, none
of those so-called 'striking' modulations, varied 'figurations,' or
effeminate 'melodies,'--none of those powerless, confusing rushes of
instrumentation, the object of which is to benumb the intelligence of
the listeners so that they may not detect the emptiness of this music.
Hence it is that only the works of the masters just mentioned (and of
the few in more recent times, who, like them, have remained true
servants of that faithful 'Church' which exists no more here below),
truly elevate and edify pious souls. Let me here mention the glorious
master Fasch, who belongs to the old pious times, and whose profound
and reverent writings have found so little favour with the frivolous
crowd that his Mass for sixteen voices could not be published for want
of due support. You would do me much injustice, Theodore, if you
supposed that my mind is shut up with reference to the more modern
music. Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven have, in very truth, unfolded a new
art, whose germ, perhaps, began to show itself in the middle of the
eighteenth century. It was not the fault of those masters that
frivolity and lack of comprehension prized the treasures already in
existence so lightly that coiners of false money tried to give to their
base metal the semblance of true currency. It is true that nearly in
the same degree in which instrumental music gained in importance, vocal
music became neglected, and that the complete disappearance of the
true old choral music (which the result of sundry ecclesiastical
changes--dissolution of the monasteries, and so forth), kept pace
therewith. Of course it is quite clear that, now, it is not possible to
go back to Palestrina's simplicity and grandeur, but it is still a
question how far our new gains and progress can be brought into use in
churches. The spirit which rules this world drives onward and onward
continually; and although the forms which are lost and gone can never
come back just as they were when they moved in our life-atmosphere,
what is true is everlasting, imperishable, immortal; and a wondrous
spiritual communion gently binds a mysterious band around the past, the
present, and the future. The sublime old masters are still alive, in
the spirit. 'They being dead, yet speak.' Their music has not died away
into silence, although in the roaring, tumultuous strife of the
ungovernable which has broken in upon us, it is difficult to hear it.
May the time of the fulfilling of our hopes be not far off! May a life
of piety, peace, and joy begin, when Music, plying her Seraph-pinions
freely and joyously once more, may enter upon her flight to the life
beyond this, to that world which is her home, and whence comfort and
salvation beam down into the unresting hearts of men."
Cyprian spoke those words with an unction which showed that they came
truly from his heart of hearts. The friends, deeply moved by them, kept
silence for some moments.
Then Sylvester said, "Although I am not a musician as Theodore and
Cyprian are, I can assure you that I have thoroughly followed all you
have said about Beethoven's Mass, and Church music in general. But,
just as Cyprian complains that it may almost be said that there is no
such person in existence at the present moment as a genuine
ecclesiastical composer, I think I might assert that it would be hard
to find a poet able to write worthy words for a Church composition."
"Quite true," said Theodore; "and the German words published with this
very Mass of Beethoven's are but too clear a proof of it."[4]
"But now," said Vincenz, rising from his chair, "like a second irate
Pope Marcellus, I banish all further talk about music from the chapel
of the Holy Saint Serapion. Both Theodore and Cyprian have spoken very
finely, but let me move 'the previous question'--let us return to the
strict rule of the Order, for which I, being a novice, am a great
stickler."
"Vincenz is right," said Theodore. "Our dissertations have not been
very interesting to the unskilled in music, wherefore it is well to
bring them to a conclusion. Let Sylvester read us the tale he has
brought with him."
This was agreed to, and Sylvester began, without further prelude, as
follows:--
MASTER MARTIN, THE COOPER, AND HIS MEN.
Dear reader, doubtless you, like others, feel your heart swell with
emotion when you wander about some spot where the glorious monuments of
old German art bear witness, in eloquent language, to the brightness,
the pious, diligent industry, the truthfulness of beautiful days which
are no more. Does not it seem as though you were entering some old,
deserted dwelling? The pious book which the good house-father had been
reading is still lying open on the table; the mother's needlework is
still in the place where she left it; cherished presents, given on
birthdays, and other festivals, stand about in carefully-kept
cupboards. You feel as though some members of the household would come
in presently and greet you with cordial hospitality. But you wait for
them in vain. The ever-rolling wheel of time has carried them away. You
may give yourself up to the sweet dream which brings the old masters
back to you, so that you hear them talking to you with a pious energy
which goes to the very marrow of your bones. And it is then that you
begin to understand the deep meaning of their labours; for you are
living in their days, and you understand the period which produced them
and their works. But alas! what happens is, that just as you would
clasp this beautiful dream-image to your heart with loving arms, it
flies away coyly on the light clouds of the morning, scared at
the noise and uproar of the day, and you gaze at its vanishing
after-shimmer with eyes filled with burning tears. Hard beset by the
surges of the life around you, you wake suddenly from the beautiful
dream, and all that remains to you is the deep, endless longing which
penetrates your heart with thrills of sweet emotion. Feelings such
as those, dear reader, have at all times filled the breast of him
who writes those pages for you, when his way has led him to the
world-renowned town of Nürnberg. Delaying before the wondrous fabric
of the fountain in the market-place, or contemplating the monument in
St. Sebald, or the Pyx in St. Laurenz, or Albert Dürer's works of deep
meaning in the Rathhaus, he has yielded himself wholly to the sweet
dreams which took him back into the midst of the glories of the old
Imperial free-town; and many a picture of the doughty burgher-life of
those old days, when art and handicraft held out hands of help and
friendship to each other in eager emulation, has risen up in clearness,
and impressed itself on his mind with a peculiar pleasure and serenity
of cheerfulness. Let it please you, dear reader, to have one of those
pictures displayed to you. Perhaps you may look upon it with a sense of
pleasure and satisfaction, or even with genial smiles; perhaps you may
feel at home in Master Martin's house, and linger gladly amongst his
vats and barrels. At all events, may that come to pass which the writer
from the depths of his heart most cordially desires.
HOW MASTER MARTIN WAS ELECTED ONE OF THE CHIEFS
OF HIS GUILD, AND DULY RETURNED THANKS FOR THAT HONOUR.
On the first of May of the year one thousand five hundred and eighty,
the Honourable Guild of Coopers in the free Imperial town of Nürnberg
held its solemn annual meeting, according to use and wont. A short time
previously one of its "Vorsteher," or presidents, had been carried to
his grave; so that it was necessary to appoint his successor. The
choice fell upon Master Martin, and, in truth, no one could equal him
in strong and elegant building of vats; nor did any one understand as
he did the keeping of wine in cellar; for which reason he had the
grandest lords and gentry for his patrons, and lived in the utmost
comfort; nay, in absolute wealth, so that the worthy town councillor,
Jacobus Paumgartner (who was president of the Guild), said, "You have
done right well, my worthy friends, to pitch upon Master Martin for
this appointment, which could not be in better hands. Master Martin is
highly esteemed by all who have the pleasure of his acquaintance, for
his great ability, and his profound experience in the art of storing
and caring for the noble wine. His ceaseless, honest industry, his life
of piety, in spite of the wealth which he has amassed, are an example
to you all."
"So I offer you a thousand congratulations on your election, my dear
Master Martin."
Thus saying, Paumgartner rose from his chair, and stepped forward a
pace or two with extended arms, expecting that Master Martin would
advance towards him in reciprocation. Upon which Master Martin pressed
his arms on the elbows of his chair, and raised himself as slowly and
heavily as his well-nourished "corporation" admitted of his doing;
after which, with equal deliberateness, he walked into Paumgartner's
hearty embrace, which he scarcely returned.
"Well, Master Martin," said Paumgartner, a little astonished, "is there
anything not quite to your liking in having been elected Syndic?"
Master Martin, as was his habit, threw his head well back, fingered his
paunch with both hands, and looked around the assemblage with his eyes
opened very wide, and his nether lip protruded; then, turning to
Paumgartner, he said: "My dear and worthy sir! how should it be
otherwise than to my liking that I receive what is my just due? Who
despises the reward of his hard work? Who sends from his door a bad
debtor who comes at last to pay the money he has owed so long? My good
friends"--here he turned to the Masters--"it has struck you at last,
has it, that _I_ ought to be elected Syndic of our Honourable Guild?
What, think you, are the qualifications you expect in your Syndic?
Ought he to be the best hand at his work?--Go and look at my two-fudder
vat, hooped without firing, my great masterpiece there, and then come
and tell me if e'er a one of you can boast of a piece of work its equal
in strength and beauty. Should your Syndic be a man of money and
property?--Call at my house, and I will open my chests and my coffers,
and you shall gladden your eyes with the sight of the glittering gold
and silver. Should he be honoured and esteemed by high and low, great
and small?--Ask our honourable gentlemen of the Council; ask Princes
und Lords all round our good town of Nürnberg; ask the Right Rev.
Bishop of Bamberg; ask them all what they think of Master Martin--and I
don't think you will hear much to his disadvantage."
With which Master Martin patted his fat corporation with much
complacent contentment, twinkled his half-closed eyes, and, as all were
silent, and only a half-suppressed throat-clearing, of a somewhat
dubious character, was audible here and there, he continued as follows:
"However, I perceive--in fact I am well aware--that I ought now to
return thanks, to the best of my ability, that it has pleased the Lord
at last to enlighten your minds to make this election. Certainly, when
I am paid for my work, or when my debtor returns me the sum he
borrowed, I always write at the bottom of the receipt, 'With thanks.
Tobias Martin, cooper in this town;' so I return you all my hearty
thanks that you have paid off an old debt by electing me your Syndic.
For the rest, I promise that I will perform the duties of my office
with all truth and faithfulness; that I shall ever be ready to stand by
the Guild, or any of its members, in word and deed, in time of need, to
the utmost of my power. It will be my heart's earnest desire to
maintain our Honourable Company in all the honour and dignity which it
possesses at present; and, dear friends and Masters, I invite you, one
and all, to dinner on Sunday next, when, over a good glass of
Hochheimer, Johannisberger, or whatever other good wine out of my
cellar you may prefer, we may consider and discuss what further may be
expedient for our common advantage. Once more, consider yourselves all
cordially invited."
The faces of the Honourable Society, which had darkened considerably at
Martin's arrogant words, now brightened again, and the gloomy silence
was succeeded by lively conversation, in which much was said concerning
the eminent merits of Master Martin, and of his celebrated cellar.
Every one promised to appear on the Sunday, and gave his hand to the
newly-elected Syndic, who shook them all cordially,--and he even
pressed one or two of the Masters just the least little bit against his
waistcoat, as if he half thought of embracing them.
The meeting dispersed in the best of humour, and the highest spirits.
WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THAT, IN MASTER MARTIN'S HOUSE.
It so chanced that Master Jacobus Paumgartner, on his way to his own
dwelling, had to pass the door of Master Martin's house; and when they,
together, had reached the said door, and Paumgartner was about to
proceed on his way, Master Martin, taking off his little cap and bowing
as low as he could, said to the Councillor: "Ah! if you would not think
it beneath you, my dear and honoured sir, to step into this poor house
of mine for a brief hour; if you would but be so very kind as to grant
me the opportunity of profiting by, and delighting in, your wise
conversation."
"I am sure, Master Martin," said the Councillor with a smile, "I shall
only be too happy to accept your invitation to come in; though how you
can call your house a poor one I cannot imagine. I know well that the
wealthiest of our citizens do not surpass you in the costliness of your
furniture and appointments. It is only the other day that you have
finished those additions to your house which have made it one of the
finest specimens of street architecture in all this famous town, of
which it is one of the ornaments; of the interior arrangements I say
nothing, for I am aware that of them no nobleman in the land need be
ashamed."
Old Paumgartner was right; for when the brightly-waxed and polished
door, all over rich brass-work, was opened, the spacious entrance-hall,
with its beautifully-inlaid floor, fine pictures on the walls, rich
carpets, and elegant cabinets and chairs, was seen to be like some fine
drawing-room; so that everyone willingly obeyed the instructions which,
according to an old-world custom, were inscribed on a tablet hung up
close to the door, in verse, as follows:
"Those who, in entering, these steps ascend
Should see that their shoon shall not sully the floor;
Or then let them elsewhere their footsteps wend,
That so there shall be no distress on their score
A person of judgment doth know--without this--
What, in such matter, his duty is."
It was warm weather, and the air in the rooms, now that the evening
twilight was falling, was heavy and steamy; for which reason Master
Martin took his guest into the cool, spacious "best kitchen;" such at
that time was named the apartment which, in the houses of wealthy
merchants, was indeed furnished like a kitchen, but, at the same time,
adorned not for use, but solely for display--with all manner of costly
implements of household necessity. As soon as they came in, Master
Martin cried loudly, "Rosa! Rosa!" The door presently opened, and Rosa,
Master Martin's only daughter, entered.
Gracious reader! I must here ask you to call to remembrance, as vividly
as you can, the masterpieces of our grand Albrecht Dürer. Let those
beautiful virgin forms which he has pourtrayed, instinct with grace and
suavity, sweetness, gentleness, pious meekness, rise before you. Think
of the noble, tender shapes; the pure, rounded foreheads white as snow;
the rose-tint suffusing the cheeks; the delicate lips, red as cherries;
the eyes, looking far away, in dreamy longing, half shadowed by the
dark lashes, as moonlight is by thick leafage. Think on the silky hair,
carefully gathered and knotted. Think on all the heavenly beauty of
those virgin forms, and you will see the lovely Rosa. He who relates
this tale cannot hope otherwise to pourtray her. Let me, however,
remind you of another grand painter into whose soul a ray from those
ancient days has penetrated: I mean our German Master, Cornelius. Just
as he has made Margaret (in his illustrations to Goethe's mighty
'Faust') appear, as she says--
"I'm not a lady; nor am I fair,"
such was Rosa, when she felt constrained, bashfully and modestly, to
evade the ardent advances of some admirer.
She now bent low before Paumgartner, in child-like deference, took his
hand, and pressed it to her lips. The old gentleman's pale cheeks
glowed. As the radiance of the evening sky fading away into darkness,
brightens up suddenly for a last moment, gilding the dark foliage ere
it sinks into night, so did the fire of youth long-perished flash up in
his eyes. "Ah, Master Martin!" he cried, "you are a wealthy, prosperous
man, but by far the most precious gift that Heaven has bestowed on you
is your charming Rosa. The sight of her makes the hearts of us old
fellows beat, as we sit at the Council Board: and if _we_ can't turn
our eyes away from her, who can blame the young gallants if they stand
staring like stone images when they meet her in the street; or see only
_her_ in church, and not the parson? What marvel that, when there is a
_fête_ in the common meadow, they drive the other girls to despair, by
all running after _your_ daughter, following _her_ exclusively with
their sighs, love-looks, honeyed speeches? Master Martin, you are well
aware you may pick and choose among the best patrician blood in the
country-side for your son-in-law, whenever you have a mind."
Master Martin's face crumpled up into sombre folds. He told his
daughter to go and bring some fine old wine; and when she, blushing
over and over as to her cheeks, and with eyes fixed on the ground, had
hurried away for it, he said to old Paumgartner:--
"Ay, honourable sir! it is no doubt the truth that my daughter is
gifted with exceptional beauty, and that Heaven has made me rich in
that respect as well as in others; but how could you speak of it in the
girl's presence?--and as to an aristocratic son-in-law, that's all
moonshine."
"Nay, nay, Master Martin," answered Paumgartner; "out of the abundance
of the heart, the tongue speaketh,' you know. _My_ old sluggish blood
begins to dance in my veins when I look at Rosa; and there can't be
much harm in my saying what she must know well enough to be true."
Rosa brought the wine, and two magnificent goblets. Martin drew the
great table, richly carved, to the centre of the room; but just as the
old fellows had taken their places, and Martin was filling the goblets,
a tramping of horses was heard in front of the house. Some cavalier
seemed to be drawing bridle; his voice was heard ringing loud in the
hall. Rosa hastened to the door, and came back to say that the old Lord
Heinrich, of Spangenberg, was there and wished to speak with Master
Martin.
"Well!" said Martin, "this is really a wondrous lucky evening, since my
good friend--my oldest patron and customer--has come to pay me a call.
New orders, no doubt; something fresh to lay down in the cellar." With
which he made off as glibly as he could, to greet the new visitor.
HOW MASTER MARTIN EXTOLLED HIS CALLING ABOVE ALL OTHERS.
The wine of Hochheimer glittered like pearls in the beautiful, cut
goblets, and opened the hearts, and loosened the tongues of the three
old fellows; and old Spangenberg, advanced in years, but still glowing
with life and vigour, served up many a quaint tale and adventure of his
younger days; so that Master Martin's paunch waggled heartily, and he
had, times without end, to wipe tears of irrepressible laughter from
his eyes, Paumgartner, too, forgot his senatorial gravity more than
usual, and gave himself thoroughly up to the enjoyment of the noble
liquor and the entertaining talk; then Rosa came in with a pretty
basket, whence she brought out table-linen, dazzling as snow. She
tripped here and there with housewifely eagerness; laid the table, and
covered it with all sorts of well-flavoured dishes, appetizing of
odour, and begged the gentlemen, with sweetest smiles, not to disdain
what had been got ready in haste. The laughter and the flow of
conversation ceased. Paumgartner and Spangenberg could neither of them
move his eyes away from the beautiful girl, and even Master Martin
watched her housewifely activities with a smile of satisfaction, as he
leant back in his chair with folded hands. When Rosa would have left
them, old Spangenberg jumped up as briskly as a youth, took her by both
shoulders, and cried over and over again, with tears in his eyes, "Oh
thou good, precious angel!--thou sweet, kind, charming creature!" Then
he kissed her three times on the forehead, and went back to his chair
in deep reflection. Paumgartner drank a toast to her health.
"Ay!" began Spangenberg, when she had left the room; "ay, Master
Martin! Heaven has, in that daughter of yours, bestowed on you a jewel
which you cannot prize too highly. She will bring you to great honour
one day. Who--be he of whatsoever condition he may--would be otherwise
than only too happy to be your son-in-law?"
"You see," said Paumgartner; "you see, Master Martin, the noble Herr
von Spangenberg thinks exactly as I do. Already I see my darling Rosa a
nobleman's bride, with the rich pearls in her lovely fair hair!"
"Dear, dear! good gentlemen!" cried Master Martin, looking quite out of
temper, "why should you persist in talking about a matter which has not
even begun to enter my thoughts? My daughter Rosa is only just
eighteen; she is too young to be thinking of a husband; and how
matters may come to pass hereafter, I leave wholly in God's hands.
But thus much is certain that neither a noble nor any other man shall
have my daughter's hand, save and except that cooper who proves
himself, to my satisfaction, to be the most utterly perfect master of
his craft--always supposing that my daughter loves him; for I am not
going to constrain my darling daughter to anything whatever in the
world, least of all to a marriage that does not please her."
Spangenberg and Paumgartner looked each other in the face, much
astonished at this remarkable statement of the Master's. Presently,
after clearing his throat a good deal, Spangenberg began:
"Then your daughter is not to marry out of her own class, is she?"
"God forbid that she should," answered Martin.
"But," continued Spangenberg, "suppose some doughty young Master
belonging to some other craft--say, a goldsmith, or perhaps a talented
young painter--were to come wooing your daughter, and pleased her very
specially, much more than any of her other wooers, how were it then?"
Master Martin answered, drawing himself up, and throwing back his head:
"'Show me,' I should say, 'show me, my good young sir, the two-fudder
cask that you have built as your masterpiece.' And if he couldn't do
that I should open the door politely, and beg him, as civilly as I
could, to try his luck elsewhere."
Spangenberg resumed:
"Suppose the young fellow said, 'I cannot show you a small-scale piece
of work such as you speak of; but come with me to the market-place, and
look at that stately building, reaching its pinnacles proudly up to the
skies. That is my masterpiece.'"
"Ah, my good sir!" Martin interrupted impatiently; "what is the good of
your taking all this trouble to alter my determination. My son-in-law
shall belong to my own craft, and to no other; for I look upon my craft
as being the most glorious that exists on earth. Do you suppose that
all that is necessary to make a cask hold together is to fit the hoops
on to the staves? Ah! ha! The glory and the beauty of our craft is that
it presupposes a knowledge of the preservation and the nursing of that
most precious of heaven's gifts--the noble wine, that so it may ripen,
and penetrate us with its strength and sweetness, a glowing spirit of
life. Then there is the build of the cask itself. If the build is to be
successful, we have to measure and calculate all the curves, and the
other dimensions, with rule and compass with the utmost accuracy.
Geometers and arithmeticians we must be, that we may compute the
proportions and the capacities of our casks. Ah, good sir, I can
tell you my very heart laughs within my body when I see a fair,
well-proportioned cask laid on to the end-stool, the staves all
beautifully finished off with the riving knife and the broad-axe, and
the men set to with the mallets, and 'clipp, clapp' ring; the strokes
of the driver. Ha! ha! that is merry music. There stands then the work,
perfect; and well may I look round me with a dash of pride when I take
my marking-iron and mark it with my own trade-mark on the head of the
cask--my own mark, known and respected by all genuine vineyard-masters
in the land. You spoke of architects, dear sir. Very good; a grand,
stately house is a fine work beyond doubt. But if I were an architect,
and passed by one of my works, and saw some dirty-minded creature, some
good-for-nothing, despicable wretch who had happened to become the
owner of that house, looking down at me from one of the balconies, I
should feel a shame at the bottom of my heart; I should long to dash
that work of mine to pieces from sheer annoyance and disgust. Nothing
of that sort can ever happen to me, for in my works dwells ever the
very purest thing on earth--the noble wine. God's blessing on my
craft!"
"Your encomium," said Spangenberg, "was admirable, and heartily felt on
your part. It is to your honour that you hold your craft in high
esteem. But please be patient with me if I do not leave you in peace
even now. Suppose one of the nobility did actually come and ask you for
your daughter. Sometimes, when a matter really comes very close to one,
much in it begins to assume a different appearance to what one
thought."
"Ah," cried Martin a little warmly, "what could I say, except with a
polite bow, 'Honoured sir, if you were but a clever cooper; but, being
as you are----'"
"Listen further," said Spangenberg. "If some fine morning a handsome
noble were to come on a splendid charger, with a brilliant following
all in grand clothes, and rein up at your door and ask for Rosa for his
helpmate?"
"Hey! hey!" cried Master Martin more impetuously than before; "I should
run as fast as I could and bolt and bar the door. Then I should cry and
shout, 'Ride on your road, your lordship. Roses such as mine do not
bloom for you. I dare say my cellar and my cash-box please you well,
and you think you may have the girl into the bargain. Ride on your
road.'"
Old Spangenberg rose up, his face red as fire. He leaned both hands on
the table and looked down before him. "Well," he began, after a short
silence, "this is my last question, Master Martin. If the young noble
at your door were my own son, if I myself were at your door with him,
would you bar the door? Would you think we had come only for the sake
of your cellar and your cash-box?"
"Most certainly not," answered Master Martin. "My honoured and dear
sir, I should open the door politely to you; everything in my house
should be at your and your son's command. But as regards Rosa, I should
say, 'Had it pleased Heaven that your noble son had been a clever
cooper, no one on earth would have been more welcome to me as a
son-in-law than himself. As it is, however----' But why should you
plague me with all those extraordinary questions, honoured sir? Our
delightful conversation has come to an end, and our glasses are
standing full. Let us leave the questions of the son-in-law and Rosa's
marriage on one side. I drink your son's good health. People say he is
a fine handsome gentleman."
Master Martin took up his goblet, and Paumgartner followed his example,
saying "A truce to captious conversation; here's to your son's health."
Spangenberg touched glasses with them, and then said, with a forced
laugh, "You saw, of course, that I was only speaking in jest. My son,
who has only to ask and have amongst the best and noblest in the land,
were a raving lunatic to come here begging for your daughter."
"Ah, my dear sir," answered Martin, "even were it jest I could answer
it in no other manner, without loss of my proper self-respect. For you
must confess, yourselves, that you are aware that I am justified in
holding myself to be the best cooper in all the country-side; that all
that can be known as to wine, I know it; that I hold faithfully by the
wine-laws framed in the days of our departed Emperor Maximilian; that,
as a pious man, I hate and despise all godlessness; that I never burn
beyond an ounce of sulphur in a two-fudder cask, which is needful for
the preservation thereof. All this, dear and honoured sirs, you can
sufficiently trace the savour of, in my wine here."
Spangenberg, resuming his seat, strove to assume a happier expression
of countenance again, and Paumgartner led the conversation to other
topics. But as the strings of an instrument, when once they have gone
out of tune, stretch and warp more and more, and the master cannot
evoke from it the well sounding chords which he could produce before,
nothing that those old fellows tried to say would harmonise any longer.
Spangenberg called his servants and went away depressed and out of
temper from Martin's house, which he had come to in such a jovial mood.
THE OLD GRANDMOTHER'S PROPHECY.
Master Martin was somewhat concerned at his old friend and patron's
having gone away annoyed. He said to Paumgartner, who had finished his
last goblet and was leaving too:
"I really cannot make out what the old gentleman was driving at with
all those odd questions; and why should he be so vexed when he went
away?"
"Dear Master Martin," answered Paumgartner, "you are a fine, grand,
noble, upright fellow, and you are right to set a value on what, by the
help of God, you have brought to such a prosperous issue and carried on
so well, and what has been a source of wealth and fortune to you at the
same time. Still, this should not lead you to ostentation and pride,
which are contrary to all Christian feeling. In the first place, it was
hardly right in you to set yourself above all the other masters at the
meeting to-day as you did. Very likely you do know more of your craft
than all the rest of them put together; but to go and cast this
straight in their teeth could only give rise to anger and annoyance.
And then your conduct of this evening; you surely could not have been
so blind as not to see that what Spangenberg was driving at was to find
out how far your headstrong pride would really carry you. It could not
but have hurt the worthy gentleman sorely to hear you attribute any
young noble's wooing of your daughter to mere greed for your money. And
it would have all been well enough if you had got back into the right
road when he began to talk about his own son. If you had said, 'Ah, my
good and honoured sir, if you were to come with your son to ask for my
daughter (an honour on which, certainly, I could never have reckoned),
I should waver in the firmness of my determination.' If you had said
that, what would have been the consequence, but that old Spangenberg,
quite forgetting his previous wrongs, would have smiled, and got back
into the fine temper he was in before."
"Scold me well," said Master Martin; "I deserve it, I know. But when
the old gentleman spoke such non sense, I really could not bring myself
to give him any other answer."
"Then," Paumgartner continued, "this silly notion of yours that you
won't give your daughter to anybody but a cooper. Was ever such
nonsense heard of? You say your daughter's destiny shall be left in
God's hands, and yet you go and wrest it out of God's hands yourself,
by deciding that you will choose your son-in-law out of one limited
circle. This may be the very destruction of both her and you. Leave off
such unchristian, childish folly, Master Martin. Commit the matter to
the Almighty. He will place the right decision in your daughter's pious
heart."
"Ah, my dear sir," said Master Martin quite dejectedly, "I see now, for
the first time, how wrong I was not to make a clean breast of the whole
business at once. You, of course, suppose that it is merely my high
opinion of the cooper's craft which makes me resolve never to give Rosa
to anybody but a master cooper. But that is by no means the case; there
is another reason. I can't let you go away until I have told you all
this. You shall not pass a single night, even, with a bad opinion of me
in your mind. Sit down again; I beg it as a favour. See, here is still
another bottle of my oldest wine; Spangenberg was too much offended to
taste it. Sit, and stay but a few minutes longer."
Paumgartner was surprised at Master Martin's friendly insistance, which
was not in his usual nature. It seemed as if something lay heavy on his
mind which he felt eager to be clear of. When Paumgartner had resumed
his seat, and taken some of the wine, Master Martin commenced as
follows:
"You are aware, dear sir, that my beloved wife died soon after Rosa's
birth from the effects of a difficult confinement. My own grandmother
was still alive at a great age (if one can call it being 'alive,' to be
stone deaf, quite blind, scarcely able to speak, paralysed in every
limb, and completely bedridden). My Rosa had been baptized, and the
nurse was sitting with her in the room where the old grandmother lay. I
was so sorrowful, and (when I looked at the child) so wonderfully
happy, and yet so sad--I was so deeply touched that I found it
impossible to do any work, and I was standing, sunk in my thoughts,
beside my grandmother's bed, envying her, and thinking how well for her
it was that she had done with earthly pain. And as I was so looking
into her pale face, all at once she began to smile in the strangest
way; her wrinkled features seemed to smooth out, her pale cheeks took
on a colour; she sat up in her bed and stretched her powerless arms as
she had not been able to do for a long time, and, as if suddenly
inspired by some miraculous power, she called out distinctly, in a
soft, sweet voice, 'Rosa! darling Rosa!' The nurse gave her the child.
She took it and dandled it in her arms. But now, my dear sir, picture
my amazement, nay, my terror, when the old lady began, in a strong,
clear voice, a song, in the lofty, joyful 'manner' of Herr Hans
Berchler,[5] host at the sign of the Spirit, in Strasbourg, to the
following effect:--
"'Little maiden, with cheeks of roses,
Rosa, hear The decree.
Never yield thee to dread or doubting,
Set God fast in thy heart.
Let not vain longings deride thee.
He prepares thee a brightsome dwelling,
Streams, of sweet savour, flowing therein,
Beauteous angels, singing full sweetly.
Pious of soul,
List to the truest of wooing,
Loveliest promise of love.
A House, resplendent and gleaming,
He whom thy heart goeth forth to
Shall to thy dwelling bring.
Needless to ask of thy father.
This is thy destined lord.
For this House, into thy dwelling
Bringeth good fortune and bliss.
Keep thine eyes open, then, maiden;
Watchful thine ears for the true word to come.
God's truest blessing be on thee,
Walking thy flowery way.'"
"And when the old grandmother had sung this song, she put the child
gently and carefully down on the bedcover, and laying her withered,
trembling hands upon its forehead, whispered words which were wholly
unintelligible, though the inspired and sublime expression of her face
showed that she was praying. Then she sunk back with her head on the
pillow, and as the nurse lifted the child she gave a deep sigh--she was
gone."
"A wonderful story," said Paumgartner. "Still I don't see how this
prophetic song of the old grandmother has any connection with your
obstinate determination to give Rosa to nobody but a master cooper."
"What can be clearer," said Master Martin, "than that the old lady,
specially enlightened by the Lord during the last moments of her life,
declared in prophecy how matters are to go with Rosa, if she is to be
happy and fortunate? The wooer who is to bring wealth, luck and
happiness into her dwelling with a beautiful House; who can that be but
a clever cooper, who shall finish his masterpiece, the beautiful House
of his building, in my workshop? In what other house do streams of
sweet savour flow up and down but in a wine-cask? And when the wine is
working it rustles, and hums, and plashes; and that is the singing of
the angels as they float on the tiny ripples. Ay, ay! no other
bridegroom did the old grandmother mean but the master cooper. To that
I pin my faith."
"Good Master Martin," said Paumgartner, "you interpret the old lady's
words after your own manner; but I cannot altogether agree with your
interpretation, and I still maintain that you ought to leave the whole
matter in the hands of God, and in your daughter's heart: for the true
meaning and the proper deciding of it most certainly lie hidden there."
"And I, as far as I am concerned," said Master Martin, "stick to my own
opinion, that my son-in-law shall be none but a clever cooper. This I
hold to, for once and for all."
Paumgartner was beginning almost to lose his temper over Martin's
obstinacy. But he controlled himself, and rose from his chair, saying:
"It is getting late, Master Martin; I think we have had as much wine
and as much conversation as are good for us."
And, as they were making for the door, there appeared a young woman
with five boys, of whom the eldest might have been scarcely eight, and
the youngest scarcely half a year old. The woman was weeping and
sobbing. Rosa hastened to meet them, crying, "Ah! Heavens! Valentine
must be dead. Here are his wife and children." "What? Valentine dead?"
cried Master Martin, much shocked, "Oh, what a misfortune! What a
misfortune! My dear sir, Valentine was the best of all my workmen; a
hardworking, good, honest fellow. A short time ago he hurt himself
dangerously with an adze, during the building of a big cask. His wound
got worse and worse; he fell into a violent fever, and now he has had
to die in the prime of his years." Master Martin went up to the
disconsolate woman, who was bathed in tears, lamenting that she must
perish in misery and distress.
"What think you of _me_?" asked Master Martin. "Your husband came by
his death in my service, and do you suppose I am going to abandon
you in your need? God forbid! You all belong to my house henceforth.
To-morrow, or when you choose, we will bury your husband, poor fellow,
and then you and your boys go to my farm before the Lady-gate, where my
great workshop is, and be there with my men. You can look after the
housekeeping; I will bring up those fine young boys of yours as though
they were my own. More than that, your old father shall come and live
here too. He was a grand journeyman cooper while he had strength in
his arms for the work. If he can't wield the mallet now-a-days,
or the notching-tool, or the hooping-iron, or take his stroke at
the grooving-bench, why he can manage to turn out hoops with the
rounding-knife. Whether or not, into my house he comes with the rest of
you."
Had not Master Martin held the woman up, she would have fallen at his
feet overwhelmed with emotion. The elder boys hung upon his doublet,
and the two youngest, whom Rosa had taken in her arms, held out their
little hands to him, as if they understood what he said.
Quoth old Paumgartner, smiling, with tears in his eyes, "One can't be
vexed with you, Master Martin," and he betook himself to his dwelling.
HOW THE TWO YOUNG JOURNEYMEN, FRIEDRICH AND
REINHOLD, MADE EACH OTHER'S ACQUAINTANCE.
The evening was falling as a young journeyman, very handsome and
distinguished-looking, Friedrich by name, was lying on a little grassy
hillock, shaded by leafy trees. The sun had set, and rosy flames were
shooting up from the deep abyss of the western sky. The famous town of
Nürnberg could be distinctly seen in the distance, broadening out in
the valley, its proud towers stretching up into the evening red, which
darted bright rays, streaming on to their summits. The young mechanic
had his arm propped upon his bundle, or travelling knapsack, and was
gazing down into the valley with longing eyes. He plucked a flower or
two from the grass, and cast them into the air towards the sunset sky;
then once more he gazed mournfully before him, and the hot tears came
to his eyes. At length he lifted his head, stretched out his arms, as
if he were embracing some beloved form, and sang the following song, in
a rich, tuneful voice:
"Again, again I see thee, my own beloved home,
My faithful heart has never lost
The faintest trace of thee.
Rise on my sight, oh roseate sheen;
Fain would I see nought else but roses.
Love's own blossoms, glow on my heart,
Gladden my bosom, cheer my soul.
Ah, swelling heart, and must thou break?
Beat firm through pain and sweetest joy.
And thou, thou golden evening sky,
Be thou to me a faithful herald;
Bear down to her my sighs and tears
And tell her, should I die, my heart
Dissolved in love unchanging."
When Friedrich had finished this song, he took some wax from his
bundle, warmed it in his breast, and began to model a beautiful rose,
with its hundreds of delicate petals, in the most skilful and artistic
manner. As he worked at it, he kept singing detached phrases of his
song; and, thus absorbed, he did not notice a handsome lad who had been
standing behind him for a considerable time, eagerly watching him as he
worked.
"My friend," said this young fellow, "that is an exquisite piece of
work you are doing."
Friedrich looked round, startled. But when he saw the stranger's kindly
dark eyes, he felt as if he had known him long. So he answered, with a
smile, "Ah, my dear sir, how can you care to look at this trifle, which
serves to pass a little of my time on my journey?"
The stranger answered, "If you call that flower, so accurately studied
and copied from nature, and so tenderly executed, a 'trifle,' a
plaything, you must be a remarkably finished and accomplished artist in
that line. You delight me in a double sense. First, your song, which
you sung so charmingly (in the tender 'Letter-Mode' of Martin
Haescher), went quite to my heart; and now I have to admire your
masterly skill in modelling. Whither are you bound to-day?"
"The goal of my journey," answered Friedrich, "lies there before our
eyes. I am bound for my home there, the renowned town of Nürnberg. As
the sun is far beneath the horizon, I shall pass the night down in the
village there; but I shall push on as early as I can in the morning,
and be in Nürnberg by noon."
"Ah, how well that falls in," cried the lad; "I am bound for Nürnberg
too. I shall pass the night along with you in the village, and we can
go on together in the morning. So let us talk together a little."
The lad, whose name was Reinhold, threw himself down on the grass
beside Friedrich, and went on as follows:
"If I do not mistake, you are a splendid metal-worker. I see that by
your style of moulding. You work in gold and silver, do you not?"
Friedrich looked sadly down, and began, quite dejectedly:
"Ah, my dear sir, you take me for something much higher and better than
I really am. I must tell you candidly that I learnt the craft of a
cooper, and I wish to go and work with a well-known master of that
craft in Nürnberg. You will despise me that I do not model and cast
glorious images, figures, groups, and only shape hoops for casks and
barrels."
"This is delightful," cried Reinhold, laughing aloud. "The idea of _my_
despising you for being a cooper, when I am nothing else myself!"
Friedrich looked at him fixedly; he did not know what to think.
Reinhold's dress was like anything rather than that of a journeyman
cooper on his travels. The doublet of fine black cloth trimmed with
velvet, the delicate lace cravat, short sword, barret cap, with long
drooping feather, seemed more appropriate to a well-to-do merchant; and
yet there was a certain wonderful something in the face and whole
bearing of the lad which excluded the idea of a merchant. Reinhold saw
Friedrich's doubts; he opened his knapsack, and brought out his
cooper's leather apron and case of tools, crying, "Look _there_,
friend; have you any doubt now as to my being your comrade? I dare say
my clothes may strike you a little; but I come from Strassburg, where
the coopers dress like gentry. Certainly, like yourself, I once had
ideas of something different; but now I think the cooper's craft the
finest in the world, and I have based many of my fairest life-hopes on
it. Is not this _your_ case, too, comrade? But it almost seems to me as
if some dark cloud-shadow had come over the happiness of your life,
preventing you from looking around you with any gladness. Your song was
all love-longing and sorrow; but there were tones in it which seemed to
come shining out of my own breast, and I feel as though I knew
everything which is imprisoned within you. That is all the more reason
why you should tell me all about it. As we are going to be intimate
friends and companions in Nürnberg, confide in me." Reinhold put an arm
about Friedrich, and looked him kindly in the eyes.
"The more I look at you, you charming fellow," Friedrich said, "the
more I am drawn to you. I distinctly hear a wondrous voice within me
echoing a monition of my soul, which tells me you are my true friend.
So I _must_ tell you everything. Not that a poor fellow such as I has
anything really important to confide to you, but merely because the
breast of a true friend has room for a man's sorrows; and, from the
first moment of our acquaintance, I felt that you are the truest friend
I possess. I am a cooper now, and I may say I know my craft well. But
all my devotion was given to another--perhaps a better--art. From my
childhood my desire was to be a silversmith, a great Master in the art
of modelling and working in silver, such as Peter Fischer, or the
Italian, Benvenuto Cellini. I worked at this with fervent zeal, under
Master Johannes Holzschuer, the famous silversmith in my native town,
who, although he did not himself cast images of the kind I refer to,
had it in his power to give me instruction in that direction and
province. Into Herr Holzschuer's house came, not seldom, Herr Tobias
Martin, the master cooper, with his daughter, the beautiful charming
Rosa. I fell in love with her, without quite being aware of it myself.
I left home, and went to Augsburg, to learn image-casting properly, and
it was not till then that the love-flames blazed up in my heart. I saw
and heard only Rosa. I loathed every effort, every endeavour that did
not lead to _her_; so I started off upon the only path which _did_ lead
to her. Master Martin will give his daughter to no man save the cooper
who, in his house, shall make the most perfect masterpiece which a
cooper can produce, and whom at the same time his daughter shall look
upon favourably into the bargain. I cast my own art on one side, I
learned the cooper's craft, and I am going to Nürnberg to work in
Master Martin's workshop. That is my object and intention. But now that
my home lies before me, and Rosa's image glows vividly before my eyes,
I could swoon for hesitation, anxiety, dread. I see _now_ the folly of
my undertaking clearly. Can I tell whether Rosa loves me, or ever will
love me?"
Reinhold had listened with even closer attention. He now rested his
head on his arm, and, placing his hand over his eyes, asked, in a
hollow, gloomy voice:
"Has Rosa ever given you any sign that she cares for you?"
"Ah," said Friedrich, "when I left Nürnberg, Rosa was more a child than
a girl. She certainly did not dislike me. She used to smile charmingly
on me when I never wearied of gathering flowers and making wreaths in
Herr Holzschuer's garden. But----"
"Well, there is some hope in that case," Reinhold cried out suddenly,
so violently, and in such an unpleasant, yelling tone, that Friedrich
felt almost frightened. Reinhold started to his feet, the sword at his
side rattled, and as he stood drawn up to his full height, the evening
shadows fell on his pale face, and distorted his gentle features in
such an ill-favoured sort that Friedrich cried, in real anxiety:
"What has come to you so suddenly?"
As he spoke he stepped backward, touching Reinhold's bundle with his
foot. A sound of strings rang forth of it, and Reinhold cried, angrily:
"Don't smash my lute, you villain!"
He took the instrument from his bundle and struck its strings stormily,
as if he would tear them in pieces. But soon his touch upon them grew
soft and tuneful.
"Let us go on down to the village, brother! I have here a fine remedy
against the Evil Spirits which stand in our way, and are in opposition
principally to _me_."
"Why should Evil Spirits stand in our way, dear brother?" asked
Friedrich. "But oh! your playing is beautiful, Please to go on with
it."
The gold stars had come forth in the dark azure of the heavens; the
night-wind was breathing in soft whispers over the perfumed meadows;
the streams were murmuring louder; the dark trees of the forest were
rustling all round in the distance. Reinhold and Friedrich went down
into the valley, playing and singing; and clear and bright, as on
shining pinions, their songs of Love and Longing floated on the breeze.
When they reached their night-quarters, Reinhold threw his lute and his
knapsack down, and pressed Friedrich stormily to his heart. Friedrich
felt burning tears upon his cheek; they came from Reinhold's eyes.
HOW THE TWO YOUNG JOURNEYMEN, REINHOLD AND FRIEDRICH,
WERE RECEIVED INTO MASTER MARTIN'S HOUSE.
When Friedrich awoke the next morning, he missed his new friend, who
had thrown himself down by his side on the straw bed; and as he saw
neither the lute nor the bundle, he thought Reinhold, for reasons to
him unknown, had left him and taken another road. When he went out,
however, he saw Reinhold with his lute under his arm, and his knapsack,
bat dressed quite differently to what he had been the day before. He
had taken the feather from his cap, was not wearing his sword, and had
on a homely citizen's doublet, of sober hue, instead of the velvet
slashed one he had previously.
"_Now_, brother," he cried, with a kindly smile, "I am sure you see
that I really am your comrade and fellow-journeyman. However, I must
say you slept wonderfully well for a man in love. Look how high the sun
is. Let's be off at once."
Friedrich was silent and thoughtful; he scarcely answered Reinhold, or
paid any attention to his jests, for he darted about hither and thither
in the highest spirits, shouting aloud, and throwing his cap into the
air; but even he became quieter as they approached the town, quieter
and quieter.
"I cannot go any further, I am so anxious, so uncertain, so filled with
delicious unrest," said Friedrich, throwing himself down as one
exhausted, when they had all but arrived at the gates of Nürnberg.
Reinhold sat down beside him, and after a time said:--
"Last night I must have seemed to you to be a very strange creature,
good brother, but when you told me of your love, and were so
disconsolate, all manner of absurd nonsense came into my head, making
me feel confused. I think I should have gone crazy at last, had not
your singing and my lute driven the evil spirits away. This morning,
when the first rays of the sun awoke me, all my sense of enjoyment in
life had come back to me. I went out, and as I strolled up and down
amongst the trees, all manner of glorious thoughts came into my mind;
the way in which I had met you--how my whole heart had so turned to
you. I remembered a pretty tale of a matter which happened some time
ago in Italy when I chanced to be there. I should like to tell it to
you, as it shows very vividly what true friendship can accomplish. It
so happened that a certain noble prince, a zealous friend and protector
of the Arts, offered a valuable prize for a picture, the subject of
which, very interesting, and not over-difficult to treat, was duly
announced. Two young painters, who were united in bonds of the closest
friendship, determined to compete for this prize. They were in the
habit of working together; they told each other their respective ideas
on the subject, showed each other their sketches for it, and talked
much together as to the difficulties to be overcome. The elder of the
two, who had more experience than the other in drawing and grouping,
had soon grasped the idea of his picture, had sketched it, and was
helping the younger with all his power; for the latter was so
discouraged at the very threshold of his sketch for the picture, that
he would have given up all idea of going on had not the elder
unceasingly encouraged him, and given him advice and suggestions. Now
when they began to paint their pictures, the younger, who was quite a
master of colour, was able to give the elder many suggestions, which he
skilfully adopted and availed himself of; thus, the elder had never
coloured a picture so well, and the younger had never drawn one so
well. When the pictures were finished, the masters embraced each other,
each of them inwardly delighted with the work of the other, and each
convinced that the well-earned prize belonged of right to the other.
The younger, however, was the gainer of the prize; upon which he cried
out, thoroughly ashamed: 'Why should I have it? What is my merit
compared to my friend's? I could not have accomplished anything worthy
of praise but for his help.' But the elder said: 'And did you not help
me with valuable counsel and advice? No doubt my picture is by no means
bad; but you have got the prize, as was proper. To strive towards the
same goal, bravely and openly, that is real friendship. Then the laurel
which the victor gains honours the vanquished too. I like you all the
more for your having laboured so doughtily, and brought me, too, honour
and renown by your victory.' Now, Friedrich, that painter was right,
was he not? Would it not rather truly and intimately unite than
separate true friends to strive for the same prize, honestly, openly,
genuinely, to the utmost of their power? Can petty envy or hatred find
place in noble minds?"
"Never!" answered Friedrich; "assuredly never! We are now loving
brethren; very likely we shall both ere long set to work to turn out
the great Nürnberg 'masterpiece'--the two-fudder cask, without
firing--each on his own account. But heaven forfend that I should be
able to trace in myself the faintest tinge of envy, if yours, dear
brother Reinhold, should be a better one than mine."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Reinhold. "What does your 'masterpiece' signify?
You will soon make _that_, I have no doubt, to the admiration of all
competent coopers; and let me tell you that, as far as concerns the
measurements, the proportions, curves, etc., you have found in me your
man; moreover, you can trust me as to the choice of the timber, staves
of red oak, felled in the winter, free from worm-holes, red or white
stripes, or blaze-marks--that is what we will seek out. You can trust
my eye; I will give you the best possible advice about everything, and
my own 'masterpiece' will be none the worse for that."
"But, heaven help us," cried Friedrich, "why should we talk about
'masterpieces,' and which of us is going to succeed there? Is that what
we are going to contend for? The real 'masterpiece' is winning Rosa;
how are we to set about that? My head reels at it."
"Well, brother," cried Reinhold, still laughing; "really we were not
saying anything about Rosa at that moment; you are a dreamer. Come
along, let us get to the town, at all events."
Friedrich rose, and walked along, perplexed in mind. As they were
washing and brushing themselves in the inn, Reinhold said:
"For my part, I don't know in the least what master I am going to work
with. I don't know a creature in the place, so I was thinking that
perhaps you would take me with you to Master Martin's, dear brother;
perhaps he would give me work."
"You take a weight from my heart," answered Friedrich; "for if you are
with me I shall find it easier to overcome my anxiety and my
uneasiness."
So they set out together stoutly for the house of the renowned cooper,
Master Martin.
It happened to be the very Sunday on which Master Martin was giving his
great official dinner in honour of his appointment, and it was exactly
dinner-time. Thus, when Reinhold and Friedrich crossed Master Martin's
threshold, they became aware of a ringing of wine-glasses, and the
confused buzz of a merry dinner-company.
"Ah!" said Friedrich, despondingly; "I fear we have come at an
unfortunate time."
"I think just the contrary," said Reinhold; "for Master Martin will be
in a fine temper, after all that good cheer, and disposed to grant our
requests."
And presently Master Martin--to whom they had caused their coming to be
announced--came out to them, in festal attire, and with no small amount
of rubicundity of nose and cheeks. As soon as he saw Friedrich, he
cried out, "Aha, Friedrich, good lad, thou art home again! That is
well; and thou hast betaken thyself to the noble cooper-craft, too! No
doubt Herr Holzschuer makes terrible faces when thy name is mentioned,
and says a really great artist is spoilt in thee, and that thou couldst
very likely have cast all sorts of little niminy-piminy figures, like
those in St. Sebald's--that, and trellis-work, such as there is in
Fugger's house in Augsburg. Stupid stuff and nonsense; thou hast done
the proper thing in turning to what is right; many thousand welcomes to
thee." With which Master Martin took him by the shoulders and embraced
him, according to his wont when highly pleased. Friedrich completely
revived at Master Martin's kind reception of him. All his bashfulness
abandoned him: he not only laid his own desires before Master Martin,
fully and unhesitatingly, but begged him to take Reinhold into his
service too.
"Well," said Master Martin, "you could not possibly have come at a
better time; there is heaps of work, and I'm greatly in need of men.
You are both heartily welcome. Take off your bundles and come in;
dinner is nearly done, but there is room at the table, and Rosa will
take every care of you." And Master Martin went in with the two
journeymen.
The worthy and honourable masters were all seated there, Herr
Paumgartner in the place of honour. Their faces were all aglow;
dessert was just served, and a noble wine was pearling in the great
drinking-glasses. Matters had arrived at a point when each of the
masters was talking, very loud, about something different from all the
others, yet they all thought they quite followed and understood; and
now one, and now another, laughed loud, without quite knowing why or
wherefore. But when Master Martin, with Friedrich and Reinhold in
either hand, announced that those two fine young journeymen, with good
certificates, the sort of fellows after his own heart, had come
offering to work for him, all grew silent, and everybody looked at the
handsome lads with a pleasant satisfaction. Reinhold glanced round him
with his clear eyes, almost proudly; but Friedrich cast his down, and
toyed with his barret-cap. Master Martin gave the two lads places at
the bottom of the table. But they were the most glorious places of all,
for presently Rosa came and sat down beside them, carefully helping and
serving them with exquisite dishes and delicious wines. All this made a
delightful picture to behold. The beautiful Rosa, the handsome lads,
the bearded masters, one could not but think of some shining morning
cloudlet rising up alone on a dark background of sky; or, perhaps, of
pretty spring flowers, raising their heads from melancholy, colourless
grass. Friedrich could hardly breathe for rapture and delight; only by
stealth did he now and then glance at her who was filling all his soul.
He stared down at his plate; how was it possible for him to swallow a
morsel? Reinhold, on the other hand, never moved his eyes (from which
sparkling lightnings flashed) from the girl. He began to talk of his
far travels in such a marvellous style, that she had never heard
anything like it before. All that he spoke of seemed to rise before her
eyes in thousands of ever-changing images; she was all eye, all ear.
She did not know where she was, or what was happening to her when
Reinhold, in the fire of his discourse, grasped her hand and pressed it
to his heart. "Friedrich," he cried, "why are you sitting mum and sad?
Have you lost your tongue? Come, let's clink our glasses to the health
of this young lady, who is taking such care of us here." Friedrich
took, with trembling hand, the tall goblet which Reinhold had filled to
the brim, and which, as Reinhold did not draw breath, he had to empty
to the last drop. "Here's to our brave master!" Reinhold cried again,
filling the glasses; and once more Friedrich had to empty his bumper.
Then the fire-spirit of the wine permeated him, and set his halting
blood a-moving, till it coursed, seething and dancing, through all his
veins. "What a blissful feeling," he whispered, as the glowing scarlet
mantled in his cheeks; "I cannot express how delightful; never did I
feel so happy in all my life before."
Rosa--to whom those words might, perhaps, convey another sense smiled
on him with marvellous sweetness, and he, befreed from all his
bashfulness, said: "Dear Rosa, I suppose you don't remember me at all,
do you?"
"Now, Friedrich," answered Rosa, with downcast eyes; "how could it be
possible that I should forget you so soon? At old Herr Holzschuer's I
was only a child, certainly, but you did not think it beneath you to
play with me; and you always talked of such charming things. And that
beautiful little basket of silver wire which you gave me one Christmas,
I still have, and shall always prize it as a precious keepsake." Tears
stood in the lad's eyes, in the intoxication of his happiness. He tried
to speak; but only the words, "Ah, Rosa! Dear Rosa!" came out of his
heart like a deep sigh. Rosa went on to say: "I have always wished most
heartily that I might see you again, but that you should take to the
cooper's craft, I never could have imagined. Ah! when I think of the
beautiful things you used to make at Herr Holzschuer's, it is really a
shame that you do not keep to your own art."
"Ah, Rosa," said Friedrich, "it was all for your sake that I was
faithless to my own beloved art." Scarcely were the words spoken than
he would fain have sunk into the ground with shame and alarm. The most
unintentional of avowals had come from his lips. Rosa, as if she saw it
all, turned her face away from him. He strove in vain for words.
However, Herr Paumgartner rapped on the table loudly with a knife, and
announced to the company that Herr Vollrad, a worthy master-singer,
would favour them with a song. So Herr Vollrad stood up, cleared his
throat, and sung such a beautiful song in Hans Vogelsang's "golden
tone," that all hearts throbbed for joy, and even Friedrich recovered
from his serious embarrassment. After Herr Vollrad had sung other
beautiful songs, in various other "tones" or "manners,"--such as the
"sweet" tone, the "crooked horn" manner, the "flowery paradise" manner,
the "fresh orange" manner, etc.,--he said that, should there be
any at the table who knew anything of the gracious craft of the
master-singers, he should now be so good as to sing a song. At this
Reinhold rose, and said that, if he might be permitted to accompany
himself on the lute, after the Italian manner, he too would be happy to
sing a song, keeping, however, in it wholly to the German "modes." No
one saying anything to the contrary, he got out his lute, and after
preluding a little in the loveliest way, went on with the following
song:--
"Where is the little fount,
Where springs the flavourous wine?
Deep in the ground.
There found,
All men may see with joy its golden glory shine.
Who found it, thought it out,
With doughty might and thews,
With craft and careful skill?
Who but the cooper!
None but he can build
The precious fount and source."
(With a little more to the same effect.) This song pleased everyone
beyond measure, but none so much as Master Martin, whose eyes beamed
with joy and delight. Without attending to Herr Vollrad--who spake more
than was necessary concerning that "manner" of "Herr Müller's" which
the journeyman had "hit off by no means badly"--Master Martin rose,
and, lifting his glass on high, cried: "Come here--thou--proper cooper
and fine master-singer--come here! with me--with thy master--shalt thou
empty this glass!"
Reinhold had to do as he was told. As he came back to his seat he
whispered to the thoughtful Friedrich, "_You_ must sing now, what you
snug last night."
"You are mad," Friedrich cried, in anger. But Reinhold spoke out to the
company, in a loud voice, saying:--
"Honourable gentlemen and masters, my dear brother Friedrich here knows
much more beautiful songs and has a far finer voice than I. But the
dust of the journey has got into his throat, so that he will sing to
you in all 'manners' on another occasion."
Then they all begun praising and applauding Friedrich as if he had
actually sung, and some of the masters even thought his voice was finer
than Reinhold's. Herr Vollrad (after another glass) thought, and said,
that Friedrich caught the beautiful German "modes" even better than
Reinhold, who had just a little too much of the Italian school about
him. But Master Martin threw his head back, smote his breast with his
fist till it resounded again, and cried--
"Those are _my_ men--mine, I say! Master Tobias Martin, the Cooper of
Nürnberg's men."
And all the masters nodded their heads, and said, as they savoured the
last drops out of their tall drinking-glasses--
"Aye, aye, it is so! All right! Master Martin's, the Cooper of
Nürnberg's fine, clever men."
At last they all went home to bed; and Master Martin gave each of his
new journeymen a nice bright chamber in his house.
HOW A THIRD JOURNEYMAN CAME TO MASTER MARTIN'S
AND WHAT HAPPENED THEREUPON.
After Friedrich and Reinhold had worked with Master Martin for a week
or two, he observed that, as regarded measurements, rule and compass
work, calculations, and correctness of eye, Reinhold was probably
without a rival. But it was otherwise as concerned work at the bench
with the adze or the mallet. At those Reinhold soon wearied, and the
work would not progress, let him exert himself as he would. Friedrich,
on the other hand, hammered and planed away sturdily, and did not get
very tired of it. What they both had in common, however, was a
refinement of manner, to which there joined themselves, chiefly at
Reinhold's instigation, much innocent merriment and witty fun. Moreover
(especially when Rosa was by) they did not spare their throats, but
sang many a beautiful song, often together, when their voices went
delightfully. And when Friedrich, turning his eyes to Rosa, would tend
towards falling into a melancholy and sentimental strain, Reinhold
would immediately strike in with a comic ditty of his own devising,
which began--
"The vat is not the zither--the zither not the vat,"
so that old Martin had often to drop the tool which he had in his hand
raised in act to strike, and hold his sides for inward laughter. On the
whole both the journeymen, but especially Reinhold, stood high in
Master Martin's favour; and one might almost fancy that Rosa too
sometimes found a pretext for lingering oftener and longer in the
workshop than perhaps she otherwise would have done.
One day Master Martin went thoughtfully to his workshop outside the
town gate, where work was carried on in the summer-time. Friedrich and
Reinhold were just beginning a small cask. Master Martin placed himself
before them with folded arms, and said:--
"I really cannot tell you, you two dear lads, how thoroughly I am
satisfied with you. But I find myself in a considerable predicament.
People write to me from the Rhine country that as regards crop this
present year is going to be more blessed than any that has gone before
it. A certain wise man has said that this comet which has appeared in
the sky so fertilises the earth with its wonderful rays, that it will
give forth all the heat which genders the noble metals out of its
deepest depths, which will so stream and exhale up into the thirsting
vines, that they will yield crops upon crops brimful of the liquid fire
which has heated them. It seems there has not been such a lucky
'constellation' for well on to three hundred years. Very good; hence
will spring great abundance of work. And, moreover, the Bishop of
Bamberg has written to order a large vat. We shall not be able to
finish it, so that I shall have to be looking out for another
journeyman hand--a good one. All the same, I don't want to bring the
first comer out of the street amongst us. And yet what's to be done? I
see no choice. If you happen to know of a good hand anywhere whom you
would have no objection to work with, say the word, and I'll send and
get him though it should cost me no small sum."
Scarce had Master Martin said this, when a young man of tall, powerful
figure cried in at the door, in a loud voice, "I say, is this Master
Martin's?"
"Yea," said Master Martin, stepping up to the young man, "verily it is;
but there's no occasion to shout in that murdering sort of style. That
is not the way to come at people."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the young man. "I see you are Master Martin
yourself. You answer exactly to the description of him given to me--the
fat corporation, the imposing double chin, the flashing eyes, and the
red nose. My best respects to you, Master Martin."
"Well, sir," said Master Martin, greatly irritated, "and what may your
business with Master Martin be?"
"I am a journeyman cooper," the young man answered, "and all I want is
to know if you can give me a job of work here."
Master Martin took a step or two backward in sheer amazement at the
notion that, just when he had made up his mind to look out for another
hand, one should appear and offer himself; and he scanned the young man
closely from head to foot. The latter met his gaze with which flashed.
Now, as Master Martin observed the broad chest, athletic build, and
powerful hands of the young man, he thought to himself, "This is just
the stout, strong-built sort of fellow that I want." And he asked him
for his certificates.
"I have not got them with me," the young man said, "but I will soon get
them. In the meantime, I give you my word that I will do your work
faithfully and honourably. That must suffice for the time." And
therewith, without waiting for Master Martin's leave, he strode into
the workshop, threw down his barret and his bundle, tied on his apron,
and said, "Now then, Master Martin, tell me what to set about."
Master Martin, puzzled by this cool manner of setting about matters,
had to take thought with himself for a moment. "Well," he said, "my
lad, to show us that you are a trained cooper, set to with the notcher
upon that cask there at the end stool."
The stranger journeyman accomplished the task told off to him with
remarkable force, skill, and rapidity. And then, loudly laughing, he
cried, "Now, master, have you any doubt that I am a trained cooper?
But," he continued, as he strolled up and down the shop examining the
tools, timber, &c., "you seem to have a good deal of queer stuff about
here. Now here's a funny little bit of a mallet. I suppose your
children amuse themselves with that. And the broad-axe yonder, that's
for your apprentice boys, I presume; isn't it?" With that he whirled
the great heavy mallet--which Reinhold could not wield, and which
Friedrich could only use with difficulty--up to the rooftree, did the
like with the ponderous broad-axe which Master Martin worked with, and
then rolled great casks about as if they had been bowls; and, seizing a
thick unshaped stave, he cried, "Master, this seems good sort of
oak-heart. I reckon it will fly like glass!" and banged it against the
grindstone, so that it broke right across into two pieces with a loud
report.
"My good sir," Master Martin cried, "all I beg of you is, don't smash
up that two-fudder cask there, or bring the whole workshop down about
our ears. You might make a mallet of one of the rafters; and, by way of
a broad-axe to your liking, I'll send to the Town Hall for Roland's
sword, three ells long."
"That would do for me nicely," said the young man, with sparkling eyes.
But presently he cast them down, and spoke in a gentler tone:
"All I was thinking, dear Master Martin, was that your work needed men
of thews and sinews. But perhaps I was a little hasty in swaggering as
to my strength. Take me into your employ all the same. I will do what
work you give me in first-rate style, you will see."
Master Martin looked him in the face, and had to own to himself that he
had probably never seen nobler or more thoroughly honest features.
Indeed he felt somehow that the young man's face stirred up a dim
remembrance of someone whom he had known and esteemed for a very long
time. But this would not become clear, although, for this cause, he at
once agreed to employ the young man, merely stipulating that he should
produce proper certificates to prove that he belonged to the craft.
Reinhold and Friedrich meanwhile had finished setting up the cask at
which they were working, and were putting on the first hoops. At such
times they were in the habit of singing, and they now begun a pretty
song, in the "goldfinch manner" of Adam Puschmann. At this Conrad (such
was the new-comer's name) shouted out from the planing bench where
Master Martin had set him to work, "Ugh! what a cheeping and chirping.
Sounds as though the mice were squeaking about the shop. If you're
going to sing, sing something that will cheer a fellow up and put some
heart into him to go on with his work. I sometimes sing a thing of that
sort myself." With which he commenced a rough, wild hunting song, full
of "Hulloh!" and "Hussah!" And he imitated the cry of the hounds and
the shouts of the people in such a thundering, all-penetrating voice,
that the workshop shook and resounded. Master Martin stopped both his
ears with his hands, and the boys of Frau Martha (Valentine's widow),
who were playing in the workshop, hid themselves in terror amongst the
timber. Just then Rosa came in astonished, nay terrified, at the
prodigious shouting, for "singing" it could not be called. Conrad was
silent the moment he saw Rosa. He rose and went up to her in the most
courteous manner, saying, in a soft voice, and with gleaming fire in
his bright brown eyes: "Beautiful lady, how this old working cabin
beamed with roseate splendour as soon as you entered it. Ah! had I but
seen you a little sooner I should not have offended your ears with my
rough hunting song." He turned to Master Martin and the workmen, and
cried, "Hold that abominable noise, every one of you! Whenever this
beautiful lady deigns to show herself here, hammers and mallets must
stop. We will hear only her sweet voice, and listen with bowed heads to
such commands as she may deign to issue to us--her humblest servants."
Reinhold and Friedrich gazed at each other in amazement; but Master
Martin shouted with laughter, and said, "Well, Conrad, I must say you
are the very drollest rascal that ever put on an apron. You come here,
and seem to be going to set to work to smash the whole place to atoms,
like some great lumbering giant. Next you bellow till we're all obliged
to hold our ears; and, by way of a worthy _finale_, you treat my little
daughter here as if she were a lady of quality, and you her page, in
love with her."
"I know your lovely daughter quite well, Master Martin," answered
Conrad unconcernedly; "and I tell you she is the most glorious lady
that walks the earth, and would to heaven that she would permit her
most devoted servitor to be her Paladin!"
Master Martin held his sides. He nearly suffocated himself before he
made way for his laughter by dint of wheezing and coughing. He then
managed to get out a "Good! very good! my dear young sir. Take my
little girl Rosa for a lady of quality, if you will, but just get back
to your work at the bench there."
Conrad stood rooted to the spot with eyes fixed on the ground; rubbed
his forehead, and said softly, "So I must." He did as he was ordered.
Rosa sat down on a small barrel, as she usually did when she came to
the workshop. Reinhold and Friedrich brought this barrel forward for
her as they were wont to do; and then they sang together (as Master
Martin bade them) the pretty song in which Conrad had interrupted them.
The latter went on with his task, silent and thoughtful. When the song
was ended Master Martin said, "Heaven has endowed you two dear lads
with a precious gift. You have no idea how much I honour the glorious
Art of Song. In fact I once wanted to be a Master-singer myself. But it
wouldn't do. I could make nothing of it, try as hard as I might. With
all my endeavours I earned nothing but derision and jesting, when I
tried my hand at the master-singing. I always made wrong 'annexations'
or too many syllables, In fact there was always something askew
with it. Well, well! you will make a better job of it. What the
master couldn't manage, his men will. Next Sunday there will be a
master-singing at the usual time, after noonday service, at Saint
Catherine's Church; and there you two, Reinhold and Friedrich, may gain
praise and honour by means of your beautiful art. For before the
head-singing, a free-singing will be holden, open to strangers, at
which you may try your skill. Now, Herr Conrad" (Master Martin called
over to the planing bench), "mightn't you mount the singing stool too,
and treat them to that beautiful hunting song of yours?"
"Don't jest, good master," answered Conrad, without looking up;
"there's a place and time for everything: while you are edifying
yourself at the Master-singing, I shall go in search of my own
pleasure, to the Common Meadow."
Things turned out as Master Martin had expected. Reinhold mounted
the singing stool and sang songs, which could not be classified as
being any special "tones" or "manners," but which delighted all the
Master-singers, albeit they were of opinion that, though the singer
committed no actual errors, yet a certain "outlandish," or foreign style,
which they could not quite define themselves, somewhat detracted from
their merit. Soon after, Friedrich seated himself on the singing stool,
took off his barret, and, after looking before him for a second or two,
cast a glance at the assembly (which darted through Rosa's heart like a
glowing arrow, so that she could not help sighing deeply), then began
such a glorious song, in the tender "tone" of Heinrich Frauenlob, that
all the masters declared unanimously that none of them could surpass
this young journeyman.
When evening came, and the singing was over, Master Martin, by way of
thoroughly completing the enjoyment of the day, betook himself with
Rosa to the Common Meadow. Reinhold and Friedrich were allowed to go
with them. Rosa walked between the two. Friedrich, in a state of great
glorification by reason of the praise of the Master-singers, ventured,
in the intoxication of his blissfulness, on many a daring word, which
Rosa, drooping her eyes modestly, did not seem to wish to hear. She
turned the rather to Reinhold, who, after his wont, chattered and made
many a lively jest and sally, not hesitating to sling his arm round one
of hers. When they came where the young men were engaged in divers
athletic sports (some of them of knightly sort), they heard the people
crying, over and over again, "He has won again!--nobody can stand
before him! There! he wins again!--that strong one!" When Master Martin
had pressed his way through the crowd, he found that all this shouting
and acclamation were to the address of none other than his own
journeyman, Conrad, who had excelled everybody at running, boxing, and
throwing the javelin. Just as Master Martin came on the scene, Conrad
was challenging all-comers to a bout of fencing with blunted rapiers,
and several young patrician "bloods," skilled at this exercise,
accepted; but he very soon conquered them all, with little difficulty,
so that there was no end to the laudation of his strength and skill.
The sun had set; the evening sky was glowing red, and the twilight
rapidly falling. Master Martin, Rosa, and the two journeymen had seated
themselves beside a plashing fountain. Reinhold told many delightful
things concerning far-away Italy; but Friedrich gazed, silent and
happy, into Rosa's beautiful eyes. Then Conrad approached, with slow
and hesitating steps, as if he had not quite made up his mind whether
to join the others or not. So Master Martin called out: "Come along,
come along, Conrad! You have held your own bravely; just as I like my
journeymen to do. Don't be bashful, my lad; you have my full
permission." Conrad flashed a penetrating glance at the master, who was
nodding to him condescendingly, and said, in a hollow tone: "So far, I
have not asked your permission whether I might join you or not. On the
whole, it was not to _you_ that I was thinking whether I should come,
or otherwise. I have laid all my opponents prostrate in the dust in
knightly play, and what I wanted to do was to ask this beautiful lady
if she would not mind giving me, as my guerdon, those flowers which she
wears in her breast." With which Conrad knelt on one knee before Rosa,
looked her honestly in the face with his clear brown eyes, and
petitioned, "Give me the flowers, if you will be so kind, fair Rosa;
you can hardly refuse me." Rosa at once took the flowers from her
breast, and gave them to him, saying, with a smile, "I am sure such a
doughty knight deserves a prize of honour from a woman; so take my
flowers, although they are beginning to wither a little." Conrad kissed
them, and placed them in his barret cap; but Master Martin rose up
crying, "Stupid stuff and nonsense! Let's get away home; it'll soon be
dark." Martin walked first; Conrad, in a courtier-like fashion, gave
Rosa his arm, and Reinhold and Friedrich brought up the rear, not in
the best of temper. The people who met them stopped and looked after
them, saying:
"Ey! look there!--that is Master Martin, the rich cooper, with his
pretty daughter and his fine journeymen; happy folks, these, I can tell
you!"
HOW FRAU MARTHA CONVERSED WITH ROSA ABOUT THE THREE JOURNEYMEN.
CONRAD'S QUARREL WITH MASTER MARTIN.
Young girls are wont to live over again all the enjoyments of a festal
day, in detail, on the subsequent morning, and this secondary feast
seems then almost more delicious to them than the original itself. Thus
did the fair Rosa sit pondering on the subsequent morning alone in her
chamber, with her hands folded in her lap, and her head hung down in
reverie, letting spindle and needle-work rest. Probably she was
mentally listening again to Reinhold and Friedrich's singing, and again
watching the athletic Conrad vanquishing his adversaries, and receiving
from her the victor's prize. Now and then she would hum a line or two
of some song; then she would say, "My flowers, do you want?" and then a
deeper crimson mantled in her cheeks; flashes darted through her
half-closed eyelids, faint sighs stole forth from her innermost breast.
Frau Martha came in, and Rosa was delighted to have the opportunity of
giving her a circumstantial account of all that had happened in Saint
Catherine's Church, and afterwards in the Common Meadow. When she had
finished, Martha said, smiling, "Well, Rosa dear, you will soon have to
make up your mind which of those three brave wooers you are going to
choose."
"What are you talking about, Frau Martha?" Rosa cried; "I haven't got
any wooers."
"Come, come," answered Martha, "don't pretend that you don't know
what's going on. Anybody who has got eyes, and is not as blind as a
mole, sees well enough that all the three, Reinhold, Friedrich, and
Conrad, are over head and ears in love with you."
"What an idea!" cried Rosa, hiding her eyes with her hand.
"Come, come," said Martha, sitting down beside her and putting an arm
about her; "you bonny bashful child, take your hand away; look me
straight in the face, and then deny, if you can, that you have known
for many a day that all the three of them are devoted to you, heart and
soul! You see that you _can't_ deny it. It would be a miracle if a
woman's eye should not see a thing of that sort in an instant. When you
come into the workshop, all their eyes turn away from their work, to
you, and everything goes on in a different way, three times as
swimmingly. Reinhold and Friedrich begin singing their prettiest songs;
even that wild fellow Conrad turns quiet and kindly. They all try to
get beside you; and fire flashes out of the face of whichever of them
has a kind glance or a friendly word from you. Aha! little daughter!
you are a very fortunate girl to have three such charming fellows
paying attention to you. Whether you will ever choose either of
them--and, if so, which--of course I cannot tell, for you are good and
nice to them all; though I--but silence as to that! If you were to come
to me, and say, 'Frau Martha, give me your advice,' I should freely
answer, 'Doesn't your own heart speak out quite clearly and distinctly?
Then _he_ is the one. Of course, they're all pretty much alike, to
_me_. I like Reinhold, and I like Friedrich too; and Conrad as well,
for the matter of that; and still I have some objections to every one
of them. Aye! the fact is, dear Rosa, when I look at those three young
fellows at their work, I always think of my dear husband. And I must
say, as far as the work which he did went, everything which he did was
done in a different style to theirs. There was a swing and a _go_ about
it: you saw that his heart was in it; that he wasn't thinking of
anything else. But _they_ always seem to unto be doing it for the
doing's sake, as if they all had something else at the bottom of their
minds all the time; as if the work was a sort of task which they had
taken up of their own accords, and were sticking to as well as they
could, against the grain. I get on best with Friedrich. He is a nice,
straight-forward fellow. He seems more like _us_, somehow. One
understands whatever he says. And what I like about him is, that he
loves you in such a silent sort of way, with all the bashfulness of a
good child; that he hardly dares to look at you, and blushes whenever
you say a word to him."
A tear came to Rosa's eye. She rose, turned to the window, and said:
"Yes, I am very fond of Friedrich too; but you mustn't think too little
of Reinhold, either."
"How should I?" said Martha; "he's the nicest-looking of them all, by
far and away. When he looks one through and through, with his eyes like
lightning, one can hardly bear it. Still, there is a something about
him so strange and wonderful, that I feel a little inclined to draw
back from him in a sort of awe. I think the master must feel, when he
is at work in the workshop, as I should if somebody brought a lot of
pots and pans all sparkling with gold and jewels into my kitchen, and I
had to set to work with them as if they were so many ordinary pots and
pans. I shouldn't dare to touch them. He talks, and tells tales, and it
all sounds like beautiful music, and carries one away. But when I think
seriously about what he has been saying after he has done, I haven't
understood a word of it, really. And then, when he will sometimes joke
and jest just like one of ourselves, and I think he is only one of us
after all, all of a sudden he will look up at one so proudly, and seem
such a gentleman, that one feels frightened. It is not that he ever
swaggers, as plenty of the young gentlefolks do; it's something quite
different. In one word, it strikes me--God forgive me for saying
it!--that he must have dealing with higher powers; as if he really
belonged to another world altogether, Conrad is a rough, overbearing
sort of fellow, but he has something cursedly aristocratic about him,
too, which doesn't go a bit well with the cooper's apron; and he goes
on as if it were his place to give orders, which everybody else had to
obey. In the little time that he has been here, you see he has got so
far that even Master Martin himself has to obey him, when he roars at
him with that thundering voice of his. But then, at the same time,
Conrad is so good-humoured, and so thoroughly straight-forward and
honourable, that one can't be vexed with him. In fact I must say that,
in spite of his wildness, _I_ like him better than Reinhold, almost;
for though he _does_ often speak roughly, yet one always understands
what he is saying. I would wager he has once been a soldier, however he
may pretend to disguise himself now. That's why he knows so well about
weapons, and the knightly exercises, which become him so well. Now tell
me, truly and sincerely, Rosa dear, which of them do you like the
best?"
"Don't be so crafty with me, Frau Martha," Rosa replied. "One thing is
certain--that I don't feel at all as you do about Friedrich. It is
quite true that he is of quite a different sort to the others. When he
talks, it seems as if some beautiful garden opened upon one, full of
lovely flowers, blossoms, and fruit, the like of which are not to be
found on earth; but it delights me to look into this garden. And many
things strike me quite differently since Reinhold has been here. Many
things which were dim and formless in my mind have grown so distinct
and clear, that I can see them and understand them perfectly."
Frau Martha got up, and, as she departed, she threatened Rosa with
uplifted finger, saying, "Well, Rosa! I suppose Reinhold is to be the
one: I never should have dreamt he would have been."
"I beg and pray you, Martha dear, neither dream, nor anticipate
anything. Leave it all to the future. What the future brings will be
the will of Heaven, and to that we must all submit with resignation."
Meanwhile things were very stirring in Master Martin's workshop. To
enable him to execute all his commissions he had taken on fresh hands
and a few apprentices, and there was such a banging and hammering going
on that it was audible far and wide. Reinhold had made out all the
measurements for the Bishop of Bamberg's great vat, and set it up so
cleverly that Master Martin's heart laughed in his body, and he cried
out, over and over again, "_that_ I _do_ call a piece of work! that's
going to be a cask such as I never turned out before--always excepting
my _own_ masterpiece." The three journeymen, hooping the cask, were
hammering till the whole place rang. Old Valentine was shaving away
busily with the hollowing-cramp. Frau Martha, with her two youngest
children in her lap, was sitting just behind Conrad, while the others
were playing and chasing each other about with the hoops. It was such a
merry, boisterous affair altogether, that nobody noticed the incoming
of old Master Johannes Holzschuer. However, Master Martin went up to
him, and asked him courteously what might be his will.
"Well," said Master Holzschuer, "I wanted to see my dear Friedrich
again, who is working away so hard there. But, besides that, Master
Martin, I want a fine cask for my cellar, and I was going to ask you to
turn me one out. See! _there_ is just the sort of cask I want--that one
your men have in hand there, let me have that one. You have but to tell
me the price."
Reinhold, who, being a little tired, was resting, said on his way on to
the scaffold again, "Ah, dear Herr Holzschuer, you will have to forego
your fancy for this cask; we are making it for the Bishop of Bamberg."
Master Martin, folding his arms behind his back, advancing his left
foot, and lifting his head proudly, blinked at the cask with his eyes,
and said somewhat boastfully, "My dear master, you might know by the
choiceness of the timber, and the superiority of the workmanship, that
a masterpiece such as this is a thing for a Prince-Bishop's cellar
alone. My journeyman Reinhold has said well. But when we have got the
vintage off our hands, I will turn you out a tidy little cask, such as
will be suitable for your cellar."
Old Holzschuer, annoyed with Master Martin's conceit, thought, for his
part, that his money was just as good as the Bishop of Bamberg's, and
that he would probably get as good value for it elsewhere; and he said
so. Master Martin, overwhelmed with anger, contained himself with
difficulty. He scarcely dared to offend old Holzschuer, friend of the
Council as he was, highly esteemed by all the town. But just at that
moment, Conrad was making such a tremendous hammering with his mallet
on the cask that the whole place was ringing and resounding; and Master
Martin's boiling wrath ran over, so that he spluttered out, with a
shout, "Conrad--dunderhead that you are--don't whack away in that
blind, furious style, man! You'll ruin that cask on our hands
altogether."
"Ho! ho! you funny little master," Conrad cried, looking round with an
angry face, "why shouldn't I?" and set to work again, hammering at the
cask with such violence that the largest of the hoops burst with a
"clirr," knocking Reinhold off the narrow board of the scaffold,
whilst, from the hollow sound which followed, it was evident that one
of the staves must have sprung as well. Overcome with rage and fury,
Master Martin seized the stave which Valentine was shaving at, and,
with a loud roar of, "Cursed hound!" dealt Conrad a heavy blow with it
across the back.
When Conrad felt the blow, he turned quickly round, and stood for a
moment as if unconscious, and then his eyes flamed with wild anger; he
gnashed his teeth, howled out, "Struck!" got down, with one spring,
from the scaffold, seized the broad-axe which was on the ground, and
aimed with it a tremendous stroke at the master, which would have split
his skull, had not Friedrich drawn him aside, so that it missed his
head; but it fell on his arm, whence the blood at once streamed out.
Martin, stout and unwieldy, lost his balance and stumbled over the
bench, at which an apprentice was working, and on to the ground. All
the rest now threw themselves around Conrad, who was raging, and
wielding the bloody broad-axe in the air, yelling, in a terrible voice.
"To Hell with him!--to Hell with him!"
Exerting all his gigantic strength, he sent them flying from him in all
directions, and was raising his weapon for a second stroke, which would
certainly have given Master Martin his quietus as he lay coughing and
groaning on the ground, but Rosa, pale as death, appeared at the door;
and the moment Conrad saw her, he paused like a stone image, with the
uplifted weapon in his hand. Then he threw it away far from him, struck
his hands together in front of his breast, cried--in a voice which went
to every one's heart--"Gracious God of Heaven! what have I done?" and
darted out of the building. Nobody thought of following him.
Master Martin was now set on his legs again, by dint of some effort,
and it was found that the blade of the broad-axe had struck the fleshy
part of his arm without doing very much mischief. Old Master
Holzschuer, whom Martin had dragged over also in his fall, was got out
from amongst the timber; and Frau Martha's children, who were
frightened and crying, were pacified. Master Martin was much
confounded; but on the whole thought that if that devil of a wicked
fellow had only not damaged the beautiful _cask_, he himself was not
much the worse. Carrying chairs were brought for the old gentlemen, for
Herr Holzschuer was more or less the worse for his tumble, too, and
expressed a very mean opinion of a calling which was carried on where
there were so many lethal weapons at hand, advising Friedrich to return
to the beautiful metals, and the modelling, and that the sooner the
better.
When the world was wrapt in twilight, Friedrich, and with him Reinhold,
who had been hard hit by the hoop, and felt sore in every bone of his
body, crept, very unhappy, back to town. At the back of a hedge they
heard a low sobbing and sighing. They stopped: and presently a tall
figure rose from the earth, which they at once recognised to be Conrad;
and they started back, alarmed. "Ah! don't fear me, you dear fellows!"
Conrad cried. "You think I am a diabolical, murdering dog; but I really
am nothing of the kind. Only I couldn't help myself. I was _obliged_ to
dash the life out of that fat old master--shiver all the bones in his
body--settle the hash of him; oh! come along back with me now, and let
me do it properly! Ah! no!--no, no! The whole thing is over! you won't
see me any more. Give my deepest homage to the beautiful Rosa, whom I
love so dearly, so dearly. Tell her I will wear her flowers on my heart
as long as I live, and that they shall be upon me when I--but perhaps
she may hear of me again yet. Good-bye! good-bye! dear old friends and
comrades!" With which he ran off across the fields without a stop.
"There's something very strange about that young fellow," Reinhold
said. "We can't judge what he does by every-day standards. Perhaps the
future may unravel this mystery which so weighs on us now."
REINHOLD LEAVES MASTER MARTIN'S HOUSE.
Master Martin's workshop was now as melancholy a place as it had once
been merry. Reinhold, unable to work, remained in his room. Master
Martin, with his arm in a sling, railed and rated unceasingly on the
subject of his late evil, unintelligible journeyman. Rosa and Frau
Martha with her children avoided the scene of the mad attempt, so that
Friedrich's hammer on the wood sounded mournful and hollow, as he went
on, finishing the job by himself.
Soon his heart was filled with the deepest sorrow. For he fancied he
now saw very clearly that what he had long dreaded was the truth. He
was _sure_ that Rosa loved Reinhold. It was not only that all her real
friendliness, besides many a sweet word, had all along been given to
him; but it was proof sufficient that, now that Reinhold was unable to
come to the workshop, she never thought of leaving the house, either,
doubtless, to nurse and take care of her lover. On Sunday, when
everybody went out to make holiday, and Master Martin--now nearly
well--asked him to go with Rosa and him to the meadow, he declined, and
went off alone to the village on the height, overpowered with grief and
love-anxiety. There, where he had first met Reinhold, he laid himself
down on the flowery turf, and, as he thought how the beautiful Star of
Hope, which had shone before him on all his journey home, had now--at
the goal--vanished suddenly into the deepest night--how all his
undertaking was now like the vain effort of a dreamer who stretches his
longing arms to embrace empty images of air--the tears came to his eyes
and rolled down his cheeks on to the grass, and the flowers, which hung
their little heads as if in sorrow for his bitter fortune. He scarce
knew how it came that the sighs which heaved his distracted breast took
the form of words and music. But he sang the following song:--
"My star of hope! ah! whither hast thou fled?
Alas! for me, slid down beneath the marge,
To rise, in splendour, upon happier hearts.
Thou trembling night-wind! smite upon this breast,
And waken there the bliss which bringeth death,
That so my heart, surcharged with tears of blood,
May break, in longing ne'er to be assuaged.
Dark trees! oh, tell me what mysterious words
Ye whisper thus, in loving confidence.
And ye, gold hems of heaven's wide-spread robe,
Why shine ye down on me benignantly?
Show me my grave! there is my hope's fair haven!
There, and there only shall I rest in peace."
It sometimes happens that the deepest sorrow, if it can but find tears
and words, dissolves into a mild, painfulness of melancholy, so that
perhaps even a gentle shimmer of hope begins then to beam faintly
through the heart. And thus it was that Friedrich felt wondrously
consoled and strengthened after he had sung this song. The evening
wind, and the dark trees which he had invoked, rustled and whispered as
if with voices of comfort. Golden streaks appeared in the dark sky like
sweet dreams of coming glory, and happiness still afar off. He rose,
and walked down to the village. There he felt as if Reinhold was
walking by his side as he had been when he first met him. All that
Reinhold had said came back upon his mind. When he remembered
Reinhold's story of the two painters who had tried for the prize,
scales seemed to fall from his eyes. It was quite clear that Reinhold
must, ere then, have seen, and loved, the fair Rosa. Nothing but this
love had taken him to Master Martin's house in Nürnberg, and, by the
painter's contest, he had meant nothing but his own and Friedrich's
rivalry as regarded Rosa. Friedrich listened once more to what Reinhold
had then said; that "to strive towards the same goal, bravely and
openly, was true friendship, and must truly, in the depths of their
hearts, rather unite than separate real friends; for nobleness or
littleness never can find place in hearts which are true."
"Yes, friend of my heart!" Friedrich cried aloud, "to thee will I turn
without reserve. Thou thyself shalt tell me if all hope is over for
me."
It was broad day when Friedrich knocked at Reinhold's door. As all was
silent within, he opened it--it was not fastened, as it generally
was--and entered. When he did so, he stood transfixed like a statue;
for there stood, on an easel before him, a full-length portrait of
Rosa, in all the pride of her beauty, lighted up by the rays of the
rising sun. The mahl-stick on the table, where it had been thrown
down--the colours still wet--showed that the portrait had just been
worked upon.
"Rosa! Rosa! oh, Father of Heaven!" Friedrich cried. Reinhold tapped
him on the shoulder, and asked him, with a smile, what he thought of
the picture. Friedrich pressed him to his heart saying:
"Ah, glorious fellow! mighty artist!--it is all clear to me now. You
have gained the prize for which I--wretch that I am! was bold enough to
try. What am I, compared to you; what is _my_ art, to _yours_? Alas! I
had great ideas in my mind, too! Don't laugh me altogether to scorn,
dear Reinhold. I thought w hat a glorious thing it would be to make a
mould model of Rosa's beautiful form in the finest silver. But that, of
course, would be mere child's play. But as for _you_!--how she smiles
on one, in all the pride of her loveliness!--Ah, Reinhold! happiest of
men! what you said long ago has now come true. We have striven for the
prize. You have won it. You could not _but_ win. But I am still yours,
with all my soul! I must get away; I could not bear to stay here. I
should die if I saw Rosa again. Forgive me this, my dear, dear,
glorious friend! This very day--this very moment--I must away into the
wide world, whithersoever my love-sorrow--my inconsolable misery--may
drive me." With which he would have left the room; but Reinhold held
him fast, saying gently:
"You shall not go, because things may possibly turn out far otherwise
than you suppose. It is time, now, that I should tell you what I have
kept silence about hitherto. That I am not a cooper at all, but a
painter, you probably now have gathered; and I hope the portrait has
proved to you that I am not one of the worst. When I was very young, I
went to Italy, the land of art; and there it chanced that some great
masters took an interest in me, and fanned the sparks which smouldered
within me into living fire. Thus I soon rose to some eminence, and my
pictures became celebrated all over Italy. The Grand Duke of Florence
took me to his Court. At that time I did not care to know anything of
the German School of Art, and, without having seen any German pictures,
I talked largely of the woodenness, the bad drawing, and the hardness
of your Dürer and your Cranache. However, one day, a dealer brought a
small Madonna of old Albrecht's into the Duke's gallery, which went to
my heart in a wonderful manner; so that I completely turned away from
the luxury of the Italian school, and at that hour determined to see
for myself, in my native Germany, those masterpieces on which my
thoughts were now bent. I came to Nürnberg here; and when I saw Rosa,
it seemed to me as though that Madonna which beamed so brightly in my
heart were walking the earth. In my case, just as in yours, dear
Friedrich, all my being flamed up in a blaze of affection. I saw and
thought of nothing but Rosa. Even art was only precious in my sight
because I could go on drawing and painting Rosa hundreds of times, over
and over again. In the unceremonious Italian fashion, I thought I
should have no difficulty in approaching her, but all my efforts in
this direction were vain. There was no way of getting introduced, in
honour, to Master Martin's house. At last I thought of going and
straight-forwardly announcing myself as one of her wooers, when I heard
of Master Martin's determination to give her to nobody but a real,
doughty, Master-Cooper. On this, I came to the, rather Quixotic,
resolve that I would go and learn coopering at Strassburg, and then
betake myself to Master Martin's workshop. The rest I left to Heaven's
will. How I carried out my resolution, you know; but you have still
to learn that, a few days ago, Master Martin told me I should make
a first-rate cooper, and should be very acceptable to him as a
son-in-law; for he saw well enough that I was trying to gain Rosa's
favour, and that she liked me."
"How could it be otherwise?" Friedrich cried. "Yes, yes; she will be
yours. How could I, most wretched of creatures, ever hope for such
bliss!"
"My brother!" said Reinhold, "you forget that Rosa has by no means yet
confirmed what wily Master Martin fancies he has seen. It is true she
has always been very charming and kindly with me; but that is not
exactly how a loving heart displays itself. Promise me, my brother, to
keep yourself quiet for three days more, and work in the shop as usual.
I might go back again there now, too; but since I have been busy at
this picture, that miserable handicraft sickens me inexpressibly. I
_cannot_ take a hammer in my hand again, come what will! On the third
day I will tell you distinctly how matters stand between me and Rosa.
If I should really be the fortunate man to whom she has given her
heart, you may depart; and you will learn that time heals the very
deepest wounds."
Friedrich promised to abide his destiny.
On the third day (Friedrich had carefully shunned the sight of Rosa)
his heart trembled with fear and anxious expectation. He crept about
the workshop like one in a dream, and his awkwardness was such as to
give Master Martin occasion to scold angrily, in a way unusual with
him. Taking things all round, something seemed to have come to the
master which had taken away all satisfaction from him. He talked much
of wicked artfulness and ingratitude, without further explaining what
he was driving at. When evening came at length, and Friedrich was going
back to town, near the city-gate he saw a man on horseback meeting him,
whom he at once knew to be Reinhold. As soon as this latter caught
sight of him he cried out: "Ha, ha! here you are!--just as I wished!"
He got off his horse, threw the reins on his arm, and took his friend
by the hand: "Let us stroll along together for a while," he said; "I
can tell you now how my love-affair has turned out."
Friedrich noticed that Reinhold was dressed as he had been when they
first met, and that the horse had a valise on him. Reinhold was looking
rather pale and troubled. "Good-luck to you, brother-heart!" he cried,
somewhat wildly. "You can go on hammering lustily away at your casks,
for I am clearing out of your way. I have just said good-bye to the
lovely Rosa, and worthy old Martin."
"What!" cried Friedrich, who felt a kind of electric shock go through
him. "You are going away! when Master Martin wants you for a
son-in-law, and when Rosa loves you?"
"Dear brother," answered Reinhold, "that is what your jealousy has led
you to imagine. It has turned out that Rosa would have married me, from
mere filial obedience, but that there is not a single spark of
affection for me in that ice-cold heart of hers. Ha, ha! I should have
been a celebrated cooper! Shaven hoops on week-days with my
apprentices, and taken my worthy housekeeper-wife on Sundays to St.
Catherine's or St. Sebald's to service, and then to the meadow in the
evening, one year after another, all my life long."
"Well, you needn't jest over the simple, innocent life of the good
townspeople," cried Friedrich, interrupting Reinhold in his laughter.
"It's not Rosa's fault if she does not really love you. You are so
angry--so wild!"
"You are right," said Reinhold; "it is only my stupid way of behaving
like a spoilt child when I feel annoyed. You will understand that I
told Rosa of my love for her, and of her father's good-will. The tears
streamed from her eyes; her hand trembled in mine; she turned away her
face, and said, 'Of course I must do as my father wishes.' That was
enough. This strange vexation of mine cannot but have enabled you to
read my inmost heart. You see that my efforts to gain Rosa were the
result of a deception, which my mistaken feeling had prepared for
itself. As soon as I had finished her portrait, my heart was at rest;
and I often felt, in an inexplicable manner, as though Rosa had really
been the picture, and the picture the real Rosa. The mean, wretched,
mechanical handicraft grew detestable to me; the common style of life,
and the whole business of having to get myself made a Master-Cooper,
and marry, depressed me so that I felt as if I were going to be immured
in a prison and chained to a block. How could that heavenly child whom
I have worn in my heart--_as_ I have worn her in my heart--ever become
my wife? Ah, no! she must for ever be resplendent in the master-works
which my soul shall engender; in eternal youth, delightsomeness, and
beauty. Oh, how I long to be working at them! How could I ever sever
myself from my heavenly calling! Soon shall I bathe once more in thy
fervid vapours, glorious land! home of all the arts!"
The friends had reached the point where the road which Reinhold meant
to follow turned sharp off to the left. "Here we part!" he cried. He
pressed Friedrich warmly to his heart, sprang into the saddle, and
galloped away.
Friedrich gazed after him, in silence, and then crept home, filled with
the strangest thoughts.
HOW FRIEDRICH WAS DRIVEN OUT FROM MASTER MARTIN'S WORKSHOP.
The next day Master Martin was labouring away at the Bishop of
Bamberg's cask, in moody silence; and Friedrich too, who was now only
feeling fully what he had lost in Reinhold, was not capable of a word,
far less of a song. At last Martin threw down his hammer, folded his
arms, and said in a low voice:
"So Reinhold has gone too! He was a great, celebrated painter, and
merely making a fool of me with his coopering. If I had but had the
slightest inkling of that when he came to my house with you, and seemed
so handy and clever, shouldn't I just have shown him the door! Such an
open, honest-looking face! and yet all deceit and falsehood! Well! he
is gone; but _you_ are going to stick to me and the craft with truth
and honour. When you get to be a doughty Master-Cooper--and if Rosa
takes a fancy to you--well! you know what I mean, and can try if you
can gain her liking." With which he took up his hammer, and went busily
on with his work. Friedrich could not quite explain to himself why it
was that Master Martin's words pained his heart--why some strange,
anxious dread arose in him, darkening every shimmer of hope. Rosa came
to the workshop, for the first time for long, but she was deeply
thoughtful, and (as Friedrich remarked to his sorrow) her eyes were red
from weeping. "She has been crying about _him_; she loves him;" a voice
in his heart said; and he did not dare to raise his glance to her whom
he loved so unutterably.
The cask was finished; and then, and only then, Master Martin, as he
contemplated that highly successful piece of work, grew cheerful and
light-hearted once more. "Ay, my lad," he said, slapping Friedrich on
the shoulder, "it is a settled matter that, if you can turn out a right
good master-piece, and win Rosa's good will, my son-in-law you shall
be. After that you can join the Coopers' Guild, and gain much renown."
At this time Master Martin's commissions so accumulated that he had to
hire two new journeymen, capital workmen, but rough fellows, who had
picked up many evil habits during their long years of travel, as
journey-men away from home. In place of the old merry talk, the jokes,
and the pretty singing which used to go on in the workshop, nothing was
to be heard there now but obscene ditties. Rosa avoided the place, so
that Friedrich only saw her at long intervals, and when he then looked
at her with melancholy longing, and sighed out, "Ah! dearest Rosa! if I
could but talk with you again! if you would only be kindly with me as
you used to be when Reinhold was here!" she would cast her eyes
bashfully down, and murmur, "Have you anything to say to me, dear
Friedrich?" But he would stand transfixed and speechless. The lucky
moment would pass, as quick as lightning which flashes in the evening
sky, and has vanished ere one has noticed it almost.
Master Martin was now all insistence that Friedrich should set to work
on his "Master-piece." He had himself chosen, in his workshop, the
finest, cleanest, most flawless timber, which had been stored there for
over five years, and had not a vein or a streak in it; and nobody was
to give Friedrich the slightest hand in the job except old Valentine.
More and more intensely disgusted with the whole thing as Friedrich now
was, on account of those brutes of journeymen, the thought that all his
future life hung upon this piece of work almost stifled him. The
strange sense of dread and anxiety which had developed itself in him
when Master Martin had lauded his faithful devotion to the craft, took
shape, now, more and more clearly. He felt convinced that he would come
to the most utter and shameful failure in an occupation completely
repugnant to his whole nature, filled as it was with the love of his
own art. Reinhold, and Rosa's portrait he could not drive out of his
mind; at the same time, his own branch of Art shone upon him in the
brightest splendour. Often, when the terrible sense of the full
wretchedness of the trade he was engaged in was like to overpower him
as he was working at it, he would pretend to be unwell, and hurry off
to the church of St. Sebald, where he would gaze for hours at Peter
Fischer's marvellous monument, and then cry out, like one enchanted,
"Oh, Father of Heaven!--to conceive, to execute such a work as
that--could there be anything on earth more glorious!" and then when he
had to go back to his staves and hoops, and remember that by means of
them, only, Rosa was to be won, the very devil's glowing talons seemed
to touch his heart, and he felt as if he must perish in the terrible
misery of it all. Reinhold often appeared to him in dreams, bringing to
him lovely designs, in which Rosa was worked in, and displayed now as a
flower, now as a beautifully winged angel. But there was always a
something wanting. Reinhold had forgotten to put a _heart_ in Rosa's
image; and that he added himself. _Then_ all the flowers and leaves of
the design seemed to begin moving and singing, and breathing out the
most delicious odours; and the noble metals reflected Rosa's form
as in a gleaming mirror, seeming to stretch her longing arms to her
lover--but the image would vanish in dim vapour, and the beautiful
Rosa, herself, seemed to be clasping him to her loving heart, all
blissful desire. His feelings towards the miserable coopering work grew
more and more terribly unendurable, and he went for aid and consolation
(as well as for advice) to his old master, Johannes Holzschuer. This
master allowed Friedrich to set about a little piece of work, for which
an idea had occurred to him, and for the carrying out of which, and
providing himself with the necessary gold and silver, he had saved up
the wages which Master Martin gave him, for many a day.
Thus it came about that Friedrich, who was so very pale that there was
but too much reason to believe (as he gave out) that he was suffering
from strongly-marked consumptive symptoms, scarcely ever went to Master
Martin's workshop, and that months elapsed without his having made the
very slightest progress with his master-piece, the great two-fudder
cask. Master Martin pressed him to work at least at much as his
strength would permit him, and Friedrich was at length compelled to go
once more to the hateful cutting-block, and take the broad-axe in hand
again. As he was working, Master Martin came up and looked at the
staves he had been finishing. He grew red in the face, and cried out--
"Why, Friedrich! what do you call this? A nice job and a half! Are
those staves turned out by a journeyman trying to pass as master, or by
an apprentice-boy who has only been a day or two in the shop! Bethink
yourself, man; what demon has entered itself into you? My beautiful oak
timber! The great masterpiece indeed! Clumsy, careless, goose!"
Overcome by all the hellish torments which were burning in his heart,
Friedrich could contain himself no longer. He sent the broad-axe flying
with all his force, and cried, "Master, it's all over! If it costs me
my life--if I perish in misery unnamed, I cannot go on labouring at
this wretched handicraft another minute. I am drawn to my own glorious
Art with a power which I cannot withstand. Alas! I love your Rosa
unutterably--as no other on earth can love her. It is for her sake
alone that I have gone through with this abominable work in this place.
I know I have lost her now. I shall soon die of grief for her. But I
cannot help it. I must go back to my own glorious Art, to my own dear
master, Johannes Holzschuer, whom I deserted so basely."
Master Martin's eyes shone like flaming tapers. Scarce able to
articulate for anger, he stammered out--
"What! you too! lies and cheatery! impose on _me_--talk of a 'miserable
handicraft!' Out of my sight, you shameless scoundrel--get out from
here!" with which he took Friedrich by the shoulders and chucked him
out of the workshop.
The derisive laughter of the other journeymen and the apprentices
followed him. But old Valentine folded his hands, looked thoughtfully
at the ground, and said, "I always saw that good fellow had something
very different in his head from casks."
Frau Martha cried a great deal, and her children lamented over
Friedrich, who used to play with them, and bring them many a nice piece
of sweet-stuff.
CONCLUSION.
Notwithstanding Master Martin's anger with Reinhold and Friedrich, he
could not but admit that, with them, all happiness and joy had fled
from the workshop. His new journeymen caused him nothing but vexation
and annoyance every day. He had to give himself trouble over every
trifling detail of the work, and had difficulty in getting the very
smallest matter done as he wished it. Wholly worn out with the worries
of the day, he would often sigh, "Ah, Reinhold! ah, Friedrich! how I
wish you had not deceived me so shamefully! Oh that you had only gone
on being doughty coopers, and not turned out to be something else!"
This went so far, that he often thought of giving up business
altogether.
He was sitting one evening in a gloomy frame of mind of this
description, when Herr Jacobus Paumgartner, and with him Master
Johannes Holzschuer, came in unexpectedly. He felt sure their visit
related to Friedrich, and in fact Paumgartner soon led the conversation
to the subject of him, and Master Holzschuer began to extol him in
every possible way, stating his opinion that with Friedrich's talents
and diligence he would not only become a first-class goldsmith, but
actually tread in Peter Fischer's footsteps as a modeller of eminence.
Then Herr Paumgartner set to work to vehemently inveigh against the
undeserved treatment that the poor fellow had received from Master
Martin, and they both of them urged the latter that, if Friedrich
should turn out a goldsmith and modeller, he should give him Rosa to
wife, provided she should be really fond of him. Master Martin allowed
them both to finish what they had to say; then he took off his cap and
answered with a smile, "Worthy sirs, you speak strongly in favour of
the lad, who has--all the same--deceived me in a shameful manner. I
forgive him that, however, but you must not expect me to alter my firm
decision, on his account. It is not the slightest use asking me to give
him my Rosa--completely out of the question."
Just then, Rosa came in, pale as death, with eyes red from crying, and,
in silence, placed glasses and wine on the table.
"Very well!" said Holzschuer; "then I suppose I shall be obliged to let
Friedrich have his way, and leave this place altogether. He has just
finished a beautiful piece of workmanship at my atelier, which--if you
will allow him, Master Martin--he wishes to offer to Rosa as a I; Bake.
I have got it with me; look at it."
He produced a small silver goblet, beautifully and artistically
ornamented all over, and handed it to Master Martin, who was a great
admirer and "amateur" of such things. He took it, and looked at it on
all sides with great admiration; in fact it would have been difficult
to meet with a more beautiful piece of silver-work than this little
vessel, where lovely vine-branches, with tendrils, interwoven with
roses, were twining in all directions, whilst from among the grapes and
the roses, beautiful angels were peeping, and others, embracing, graven
inside it, on its gilt sides and bottom; so that when wine was poured
into it, those angels seemed to hover up and down, in charming play.
"A very pretty thing indeed!" Master Martin said. "Beautiful work about
it! I shall be glad to take it, if Friedrich will allow me to give him
twice its worth in good gold pieces."
So saying, Master Martin filled the cup with wine, and set it to his
lips.
Here the door opened gently, and Friedrich, with the deadly pain of
parting for ever from her he loved best on earth in his white face,
came in at it. As soon as Rosa saw him, she gave a bitter cry of "Oh,
my own dearest Friedrich!" and threw herself half-fainting on his
breast.
Master Martin set the cup down, and when he saw Rosa in Friedrich's
arms, he opened wide eyes, as if he were seeing ghosts. Then he took up
the cup again without a word, and looked down into it. "Rosa," he cried
in a loud voice, rising from his chair, "do you really love Friedrich?"
"Ah!" said Rosa in a whisper, "I cannot hide it any longer--I love him
as my life! My heart was broken when you sent him away."
"Take your wife to your heart then, Friedrich, Yes, yes, I say
it--_your wife_," Master Martin cried out.
Paumgartner and Holzschuer looked at each other, lost in amazement; but
Master Martin, holding the cup in his hands, went on, and said, "Oh
Father of Heaven! has not everything turned out exactly as the old lady
prophesied it should? 'A House resplendent and gleaming he shall to thy
dwelling bring; streams of sweet savour flowing therein; beauteous
angels sing full sweetly; he whom thy heart goeth forth to needless to
ask of thy father, this is thy Bridegroom beloved!' Oh fool that I have
been! this is the bright little House! here are the angels, the
bridegroom! Aha! gentlemen, my friends and patrons--my son-in-law is
found!"
Whosoever has at any time been under the spell of an evil dream, and
thought he was lying in the deep, black darkness of the grave, and then
has suddenly awakened in the bright spring-time, all perfume, sunshine
and song, and she who is dearest to him on earth has come and put her
arms about him, while he looked up into the heaven of her beautiful
face--that person will understand how Friedrich felt--will comprehend
the exuberance of his blissfulness. Unable to utter a word, he held
Rosa fast in his arms as if he would never let her go, till she gently
extricated herself from his embrace, and led him to her father. He then
found words, and cried:
"Oh, dear master, is this really true, then? Do you give me Rosa for my
wife, and may I go back to my own art?"
"Yes, yes, believe it!" answered Master Martin. "What else is there
that I can do? You have fulfilled my mother's prophecy, and your
masterpiece will never be finished."
Friedrich smiled, transfigured with happiness, and said: "No, dear
master, you will allow me to finish my masterpiece, and then I will go
back to my smelting-furnace. For I should enjoy finishing my cask, as
my last piece of coopering-work."
"So let it be then, my dear, good son," cried Master Martin, with eyes
sparkling with joy. "Finish your masterpiece, and then, for the
wedding!"
Friedrich kept his word. He duly finished his two-fudder cask, and all
the masters averred that it would be hard to meet with a prettier piece
of work; at which Master Martin was highly delighted, and thought that,
all things considered, heaven could scarcely have awarded him a better
son-in-law.
The wedding-day had come at last. Friedrich's cask-masterpiece, full of
noble wine, and garlanded with flowers, stood on the house-floor. The
Masters of the craft, headed by Herr Paumgartner, duly arrived, with
their wives, followed by the Master-Goldsmiths. The procession was just
setting out from St. Sebald's church, where the wedding was to be, when
a blast of trumpets sounded in the streets, and horses were neighing
and stamping in front of Master Martin's house. He hastened to the
balcony window, and there he saw Herr von Spangenberg drawing up, in
front of the house, in festal array. A few yards behind him rode a
young cavalier, a grand-looking young gentleman, on a spirited charger,
with a sword at his side, and tall plumes waving in his barret-cap,
which sparkled with jewels. At the cavalier's side Master Martin saw a
most beautiful lady, also splendidly attired, and riding a palfrey as
white as new-fallen snow. Pages and servants in fine liveries formed a
circle about them. The trumpets ceased to sound, and old Baron von
Spangenberg cried out, "Ha, ha! Master Martin. I am not come here on
account of your cellar or your gold-ingots, but because it is Rosa's
wedding-day. Will you let me come in, dear Master Martin?"
Master Martin, remembering what he had said that night so long ago, was
somewhat put out, but hastened down to welcome the party. The old Baron
dismounted, and came in, with courteous greetings. Pages hurried up,
offering their arms to help the young lady to dismount; her cavalier
gave her his hand, and followed the old Baron. But as soon as Master
Martin looked upon the young cavalier, he started back three paces,
clapped his hands and cried, "Good heavens! 'tis Conrad!"
The cavalier smiled, and said, "Yes, yes, Master Martin, I am your
journeyman Conrad. You must pardon me for having given you that nasty
wound. By rights, dear master, I ought to have sent you to kingdom
come; you must see that yourself--however, things have all turned out
differently."
Master Martin, in some confusion, answered that he "thought it was just
as well that he had _not_ been sent to 'kingdom come,' and that he
hadn't much minded the little bit of cut with the broad-axe."
As Master Martin now entered with his new guests the chamber where the
bridal-pair were, with the others, everybody acclaimed delight at the
beauty of the lady, for she was so exactly like the bride that she
might have been her twin-sister. The cavalier went up to the bride
courteously, saying, "Beautiful Rosa, I hope you will permit Conrad to
be present at your wedding. You are no longer vexed with the wild
thoughtless fellow who so nearly cost you a great sorrow?"
As the bride, the bridegroom, and Master Martin looked from one to
another in utter perplexity, the old Baron cried out, "Well, well!
suppose I must help you out of your dream. This is my son, Conrad, and
there is his beautiful wife, whose name is Rosa, the same as the
bride's. Remember, Master Martin, our conversation, when I asked you if
you would refuse to give me your Rosa even to my son. It had a special
purpose. The boy was over head and ears in love with your Rosa. He got
me persuaded to throw all consideration to the winds, and agree to act
as his mediator--his go-between. But when I told him how you had shown
me the door, he went and sneaked into your service in the most foolish
way, as a cooper, to gain Rosa's heart, with the view, as I suppose, of
carrying her off from you. Well! you cured him with that swinging blow
you gave him on the back, and thanks to you for that, inasmuch as he
has found a noble lady, who may perhaps be really the Rosa he had in
his heart from the beginning."
Meanwhile the lady had saluted the bride with the gentlest courtesy,
and placed round her neck a rich pearl-necklace, as a wedding-gift.
"Look, dear Rosa," she said, taking some withered flowers from amongst
the fresh ones she wore on her breast, "those are the flowers which you
once gave to my Conrad as a prize of victory. He kept them faithfully
till he saw me. But then he was false to you, and let me have them.
Don't be angry."
Rosa, blushing deeply, and casting her eyes modestly down, answered,
"Ah! my lady, how can you speak _so_? He never could have cared for
_me_, certainly. _You_ were his love alone; and because I happen to be
called Rosa, too, and am--as these gentlemen say--a little like you, he
made love to me, thinking all the time of you."
The procession was about to start for the second time, when a young
gentleman came in, dressed in the Italian fashion, all in slashed black
velvet, with a fine gold chain and a collar of rich lace.
"Oh, my Reinhold," cried Friedrich, and fell upon his neck; and the
bride and Master Martin, too, rejoiced, and cried out, "Here is our
beloved Reinhold come!"
"Did I not say, my dearest friend," said Reinhold, cordially returning
the embraces, "that everything would turn out gloriously for you after
all? Let me celebrate your wedding day with you. I have come a long
distance to do so. And as an everlasting memorial, hang up in your
house the picture which I painted for you, and which I have brought
with me." He called without, and two servants came in carrying a large
painting, in a magnificent gold frame, representing Master Martin in
his workshop, with his journeymen, Reinhold, Friedrich, and Conrad, at
work on the great cask, with Rosa just come in at the door. Everybody
was amazed at the truthfulness and the splendid colouring of this work
of art.
"Ah," said Friedrich, "_that_ is _your_ cooper's masterpiece. Mine is
downstairs. But I shall turn out another."
"I know," said Reinhold, "and you are a fortunate man; stick to your
own art; very probably it is better suited to domesticity and the like,
than mine."
At the wedding dinner Friedrich sat between the two Rosas, with Master
Martin opposite to him, between Reinhold and Conrad. Paumgartner filled
Friedrich's goblet to the brim with noble wine, and drank to the health
of Master Martin and his grand journeymen. The goblet went round, and
first Baron von Spangenburg, and after him all the worthy masters
drained it to the same toast.
When Sylvester had finished his reading, the friends were unanimous in
their opinion that the tale was worthy of the Serapion Club, and they
particularly admired the pleasingness of the general tone which
characterised it.
"I suppose," said Lothair, "that I am fated always to be the one to
pick a hole or two. But I can't help it. To my mind, Master Martin
smacks too much of his origin; I mean, of the picture which suggested
him. Sylvester, inspired by our great Kolbe's painting, has shown us a
splendid collection of other pictures; and, though the colouring of
them is delightful, still, they are nothing but pictures; they never
could become situations, in living movement, as the narrative of the
drama demands that they should do. Conrad, with _his_ Rosa, and
Reinhold as well, come in at the end merely that Friedrich's wedding
feast may be pleasant and proper, as it ought to be. On the whole--as
far as Conrad is concerned--if I did not know your simpleness of heart,
Sylvester--if you had not, all through your tale, striven with good
success to be always true and straight-forward, well! I should have
been inclined to say that--in your Conrad--you had wished to be
ironical over those wondrous characters who, in many of our modern
novels, play leading parts--a sort of hash-up of loutishness,
'_galanterie_,' barbarism, and sentimentality who call themselves
'chivalrous,' but of whom, I fancy, there never was a prototype, any
more than of those 'blusterers' whom Veit Weber and his followers used
to portray, knocking everybody into minced meat, right and left, on
every occasion."
Vincent said: "You have brought in the 'Berseker fury' certainly, with
admirable effect. But it is unpardonable in you to have allowed a
nobleman's back to be blued and blacked by the hoop of a cask, without
the blue and blacked aristocrat having broken the head of the dealer of
the blow. He might have begged his pardon politely afterwards, or
applied an Arcanum which would have mended his head in a moment; after
which he would have been aware of a distinct increase in his wisdom.
The only gentleman whom you can quote as a prototype is the valiant
knight Don Quixote, who got many a sound licking, notwithstanding his
magnanimity, braggery, and chivalry."
"Blame as much as you please," said Sylvester, laughing. "I leave
myself entirely in your hands; but let me say that where I find
consolation is in the verdicts of those charming ladies to whom I read
my 'Master Martin,' and who expressed thorough delight with the whole
affair, and overwhelmed me with praise."
"Praise of that sort, from beautiful lips," said Ottmar, "certainly is
wholly irresistible, and capable of leading many a romancer into
wondrous follies, and scriptorial capers of every kind; but, if I am
not mistaken, Lothair promised to finish this evening of ours with one
of the productions of his fantastic dreamery."
"Yes," answered Lothair. "Recollect that I undertook to write a second
story for my sister's children, and to be less wild, and more peaceable
and 'childlike,' than I was in 'Nutcracker and the King of Mice.' The
story is here, and you shall hear it."
Lothair then read:--
THE STRANGER CHILD.
BARON VON BRAKEL OF BRAKELHEIM.
There was once a noble gentleman named The Baron Thaddeus von Brakel,
who lived in the little village of Brakelheim, which he had inherited
from his deceased father, the old Baron von Brakel, and which,
consequently, was his property. The four rustics, who were the other
inhabitants of the village, called him "your Lordship," although, like
themselves, he went about with his hair badly combed, and it was only
on Sundays when he went to the neighbouring country town to church,
with his lady and his two children (whose names were Felix and
Christlieb)--that he substituted for the coarse cloth jacket, which he
wore at other times, a fine green coat and a scarlet waistcoat with
gold braid, which became him well. The same rustic neighbours, when any
one chanced to ask, "How shall I find my way to the Baron von
Brakel's?" were wont to reply: "Go straight on through the village, and
up the hill where those birches are; his Lordship's castle is there."
Now everybody knows that a castle is a great and lofty building, with a
number of windows and doors, to say nothing of towers and glittering
weathercocks; but nothing of this sort could be discovered on the hill
where the birches were, all that was to be seen there being a
commonplace little ordinary house, with a few small windows, which you
could hardly see anything of, till you were close upon it. Now it is
often the case that, at the portal of a grand castle, one suddenly
halts, and--being breathed upon by the icy air which streams out of it,
and glared at by the lifeless eyes of the strange sculptured figures
which are fixed, like fearful warders, on the walls--loses all desires
to go in, preferring to turn away. But this was by no means the case,
as regarded Baron von Brakel's abode. For, first of all, the beautiful
graceful birches, when one came to them, would bend their leafy
branches like arms stretched out, to greet him, their rustling leaves
whispering a "Welcome, welcome among us!" And when one reached the
house, it seemed as if charming voices were calling, in dulcet tones,
out of the bright, windows, and everywhere from among the thick dark
leafage of the vine which covered the walls up to the roof: "Come,
come, and rest, thou dear weary wanderer; here all is comfort and
hospitality." This was also confirmed by the swallows, twittering
merrily in and out of their nests; and the stately old stork looked
down, gravely and wisely, from the chimney, and said: "I have passed my
summers in this place now for many and many a year, and I know no
better lodging in all the world; if it weren't for my inborn love of
travel, which I can't control--if it weren't so very cold here in the
winter, and wood so dear--I should never stir from the spot." Thus
charming and delightful, although not a castle, was Baron von Brakel's
house.
VISITORS OF DISTINCTION.
Madame von Brakel got up very early one morning, and baked a cake, into
which she put a great many more almonds and raisins than even into her
Easter cake, for which reason it had a much more delicious odour than
that one itself had. While this was in progress, the Baron von Brakel
thoroughly dusted and brushed his green coat and his red waistcoat, and
Felix and Christlieb were dressed in the very best clothes they
possessed. The Baron said to them: "You mustn't run about in the wood
to-day, as you generally do, but sit still in the room, that you may
look neat and nice when your distinguished uncle comes!"
The sun had emerged, bright and smiling, from the clouds, and was
darting golden beams in at the window; out in the wood the morning
breeze blew fresh, and the finch, the siskin, and the nightingale were
all pouring out their hearts in joy, and warbling the loveliest songs
in chorus. Christlieb was sitting silent, deep in thought, at the
table, now and then smoothing and arranging the bow of her pink sash,
now and then industriously striving to go on with her knitting, which,
somehow, would by no means answer that morning. Felix, into whose hands
papa had put a fine picture-book, looked away over the tops of the
pages towards the beautiful Birchwood, where, every other morning but
this, he might jump about for an hour or two to his heart's content.
"Oh! isn't it jolly out there!" sighed he to himself; and when, in
addition, the big yard-dog, Sultan by name, came barking and bounding
before the window, dashing away a short distance in the direction of
the wood, coming back again, and barking and growling afresh, as if he
were saying to Felix, "Aren't you coming to the wood to-day? What on
earth are you doing in that stuffy room?" Felix couldn't contain
himself for impatience. "Oh, darling mamma, do just let me go out, only
for a little!" he cried; but Madame von Brakel answered, "No, no, stay
in the room, like a good boy. I know very well how it will be; if you
go, Christlieb must go too, and then away you'll both scamper, helter
skelter, through brush and briar, up into the trees. And then, back
you'll come, all hot and smirched, and your uncle will say, 'What ugly
country children are these? I am sure no Brakels, be they big or
little, can ever be like that.'"
Felix clapped the book to in a rage, and said, as the tears of
disappointment came into his eyes, "If our grand uncle talks of ugly
country children, I'm sure he never can have seen Peter Vollrad or
Annie Hentschel, or any of the children in the village here, for I know
there couldn't be prettier children anywhere than they are." "I'm sure
of that," said Christlieb, as if suddenly waking from a dream; "and
isn't Maggy Schulz a beautiful child too, although she hasn't anything
like as pretty ribbons as mine." "Do not talk such stupid nonsense,"
said their papa, "you don't understand what your uncle means, in so
saying."
All further representations to the effect that just this day, of all
others, it was so very glorious in the wood were of no avail, Felix and
Christlieb had to stay in the room, and this was all the more painful
because the company cake, which was on the table, gave out the most
delicious odours, and yet might not be cut into until their uncle's
arrival. "Oh! if he would but come! if he would but only come!" both
the children cried, and almost wept with impatience. At last a vigorous
trampling of horses became audible, and a carriage appeared, which was
so brilliant and so richly covered with golden ornamentation, that the
children were unspeakably amazed, for they had never beheld the like of
it before. A tall and very thin man glided by help of the arm of the
footman, who opened the carriage door, into the arms of Baron von
Brakel, to whose cheek he twice gently laid his own, and whispered
mincingly, "_Bon jour_, my dear cousin; now, no ceremony, I implore!"
Meanwhile the footman had also aided a short stout lady, with very red
cheeks, and two children, a boy and a girl, to glide down to earth from
the carriage (which he performed with much dexterity), so that each of
them came to their feet on the ground.
When they were all thus safely deposited, Felix and Christlieb came
forward (as they had been duly prepared by mamma and papa to do),
seized each a hand of the tall thin man, and said, kissing the same,
"We are very glad you are come, dear noble uncle;" then they did the
same with the hands of the stout lady, and said, "We are very glad you
are come, dear noble aunt;" then they went up to the children, but
stood before them quite dumfounded, for they had never seen children of
the sort before. The boy had on long pantaloons, a little jacket of
scarlet cloth covered all over with golden knots and embroidery, and a
little bright sabre at his side; while on his head was a curious red
cap with a white feather, from under which he peeped shyly and
bashfully with his yellow face, and his bleared, heavy eyes. The girl
had on a white dress--very much like Christlieb's, but with a frightful
quantity of ribbons and tags--and her hair was most curiously frizzed
up into knots, and twisted upon the top of her head, where there was,
besides, a little shining coronet.
Christlieb plucked up courage, and was going to take the little girl's
hand; but she snatched it away in a hurry, and put on such an angry
tearful face, that Christlieb was quite frightened, and let her alone.
Felix wanted to have a closer look at the boy's pretty sabre, and put
out his hand to it, but the youngster began to cry, "My sabre, my
sabre, he's going to take my sabre!" and ran to the thin man, behind
whom he hid himself. Felix grew red in the face, and said, much
annoyed: "_I_ don't want to take your sabre--young stupid!"
The last two words were murmured between his teeth, but Baron von
Brakel seemed to have heard all, and was much put out about it, for he
fingered his waistcoat nervously, and said, "Oh, Felix!" The stout lady
said, "Adelgunda! Herrmann! the children are doing you no harm; do not
be so silly." The thin gentleman saying, "They will soon make
acquaintance," took Madam von Brakel by the hand, and conducted her to
the house. Baron von Brakel followed him with the stout lady, to whose
skirts Adelgunda and Herrmann clung. Christlieb and Felix came after
them.
"The cake will be cut now," Felix whispered to his sister. "Oh, yes!
oh, yes! yes!" answered she delighted. "And then we'll be off into the
wood," continued Felix. "And not bother more about these stupid
stranger things," added Christlieb. Felix cut a caper; and then they
went into the room. Adelgunda and Herrmann might not have any of the
cake, because their papa and mamma said it was not good for them; so
each of them had a little biscuit, which the footman had to produce
from a bag which he had brought. Felix and Christlieb munched bravely
at the substantial piece of cake which their dear mamma had given to
each, and enjoyed themselves.
THE FURTHER PROGRESS OF THE VISIT OF THE
DISTINGUISHED RELATIVES.
The thin gentleman, whose name was Cyprianus von Brakel, was first
cousin to the Baron Thaddeus von Brakel, but a personage of far greater
distinction. For, besides bearing the title of count, he wore upon
every one of his coats--aye, even on his dressing-gown--a great silver
star. Thus it had happened that when, about a year before, he had paid
a flying visit one afternoon to his cousin, Baron Thaddeus--but alone
that time, without the stout lady (who was his wife) and without the
children Felix had said to him, "Please tell me, uncle, have you been
made _king_ now?" For Felix had seen a picture of a king in his
picture-book with just such a star on his breast, and naturally thought
his uncle was one, since he wore this mark of royalty. His uncle had
laughed much at the question on that occasion, and replied, "No, dear
child, I am not the king, but I am the king's most faithful servant and
minister, who rules over a great many people. If you belonged to the
line of the Counts of Brakel, perhaps you might one day wear a star
like this one of mine. As it is, you are only a simple 'von'--a baron,
and cannot expect to come to very much."
Felix did not understand his uncle in the slightest, and his father
thought it did not much matter whether he did or not. The uncle told
his fat lady how Felix had thought he was the king; on which she
ejaculated, "Sweet, delightful, _touching_ innocence!"
And now Felix and Christlieb had to come forward from the window, where
they had been eating their cake with much kickering and laughter. Their
mother wiped the cake-crumbs and raisin-remnants from their lips, and
they were handed over to their gracious uncle and aunt, who kissed
them, with loud ejaculations of, "Oh, sweet and darling nature! oh
rural simplicity!" and placed big cornets of paper in their hands.
Tears came to the eyes of Baron Thaddeus von Brakel, and to those of
his wife, over this condescension of their grand kinsfolk. Meanwhile
Felix had opened his paper-cornet, and found in it bonbons, at which he
set to work to munch vigorously, in which Christlieb followed his
example.
"My boy! my boy!" cried his gracious uncle, "that is not the way to do
it; you will destroy your teeth! You must suck them gently till the
sugar dissolves in your mouth." But Felix laughed, and said, "Gracious
uncle! do you think I am a baby, and haven't got teeth to bite them
with?" With which he put a bonbon in his mouth and gave it such a bite
that everything rattled and rang. "Delicious naivety!" the fat lady
cried. The uncle agreed; but drops of perspiration stood on Baron
Thaddeus von Brakel's forehead. He was ashamed of Felix's lack of
polish; and the mother whispered to the boy hurriedly, "Don't make such
a clattering with those teeth of yours, ill-bred boy!" This put poor
Felix into a state of utter consternation, for he didn't know he was
doing anything wrong. He took the half-eaten bonbon out of his mouth,
put it into the paper parcel again, and handed the whole thing back to
his uncle, saying, "Take your sugar away with you again!--that's all I
care about, if I mayn't eat it." Christlieb, accustomed to follow
Felix's example in all things, did the same with _her_ paper-cornet.
This was too much for poor Baron Thaddeus, who cried out, "Ah! my
honoured and gracious cousin! do not be annoyed with the silliness of
those simple children. Really, in the country, and in our straitened
circumstances, alas! who could bring up children in the style in which
you have brought up yours?" Count Cyprianus smiled a gracious smile as
he glanced at Herrmann and Adelgunda. They had long since finished
eating their biscuit, and were now sitting as mum as mice upon their
chairs, without the slightest motion of either their faces or their
limbs. The fat lady smiled too, and lisped out, "Really, dear cousin,
the education of our children lies nearer our hearts than anything in
the world." She made a sign to Count Cyprianus, who immediately turned
to Herrmann and Adelgunda, and asked them all sorts of questions, which
they answered with the utmost readiness. The questions were about
towns, rivers, and mountains, many thousands of miles off, and having
the oddest names; also they could tell what every sort of animal was
like, which was to be found in the remotest quarters of the globe. Then
they spoke of plants, trees, and shrubs, just as if they had seen them
themselves, and eaten of the fruits. Herrmann gave a minute description
of all that had happened at a great battle three hundred years ago, or
more, and was able to cite the names of all the Generals who had taken
part in it. At length Adelgunda even spoke of the stars, and stated
that there were all sorts of beasts, and curious figures, in the sky.
This made Felix quite frightened and uneasy; he got close to his
mother, and whispered, "Ah, mamma! dearest mamma! what is all that
nonsense that they're blabbering about?" "Hold your tongue, stupid
boy!" his mother replied. "Those are the Sciences."
Felix held his peace.
"Astonishing!" cried Baron Thaddeus. "Quite unparalleled! at their time
of life!" And Fran von Brakel sighed out, "Oh, Jemini! what little
angels! What in the world is to become of _our_ little ones, out in the
country here!"
Baron Thaddeus now joining in his wife's lamentations, Count Cyprianus
comforted their hearts, by promising to send them, shortly, a man of
much erudition, and specially skilled in the education of children.
Meanwhile the beautiful carriage had driven up to the door, and the
"jaeger" came in with two great bandboxes, which Herrmann and Adelgunda
took and handed to Felix and Christlieb. Herrmann, making a polite bow,
said, "Are you fond of playthings, _mon cher_?--here I have brought you
some of the finest kind." Felix hung his head. He felt melancholy; he
did not know why. He held the bandbox in his hands, without expressing
any thanks, and said in a murmur, "I'm not '_mon cher_,' and I'm not
'you'; I'm 'thou.'" And Christlieb was nearer crying than laughing,
although the box which Adelgunda had handed her was giving forth the
most delightful odours, as of delicious things to eat. The dog Sultan,
Felix's faithful friend and darling, was dancing and barking, according
to his wont; but Herrmann was so frightened at him that he hid himself
in a corner and began to cry. "He's not touching _thee_," Felix cried.
"He's only a dog. What art thou howling and screaming about? You know
all about the most terrible wild beasts in the world, don't you?--and
even if he were going to set upon you, haven't you your sword on?"
But Felix's words were of no avail. Herrmann went on howling till the
servant had to take him in his arms and bear him off to the carriage.
Adelgunda, suddenly infected by her brother's terror--or heaven knows
from what other cause!--also began to scream and howl, which so
affected poor Christlieb that _she_ began to cry too. Amid this yelling
and screaming of the children, Count Cyprianus von Brakel took his
departure from Brakelheim; and so terminated the visit of those
distinguished relations.
THE NEW PLAYTHINGS.
When the carriage containing Count Cyprianus von Brakel and his family
had rolled down the hill, Herr Thaddeus quickly threw off his green
coat and his red waistcoat; and when he had, as quickly, put on his
loose jacket, and passed his big comb two or three times through his
hair, he drew a long breath, stretched himself, and cried, "God be
thanked!" The children, too, got out of their Sunday clothes, and felt
happy and light. "To the wood! to the wood!" cried Felix, executing
some of his highest jumps.
"But don't you want to see what Herrmann and Adelgunda have brought you
before you set off?" said their mother. And Christlieb, who had been
contemplating the boxes with longing eyes even while her clothes were
being changed, thought that _that would_ be a good thing to do first,
and that it would be plenty of time to go to the wood afterwards. Felix
was very hard to convince of this. He said, "What that can be of any
consequence can that stupid pump-breeked creature have brought us?--and
his ribbony sister into the bargain? About the 'sciences,' as you call
them, he clatters away as finely as you please. He talks about bears
and lions, and tells you how to take elephants, and then he's afraid of
my dear dog Sultan; has a sword on, and goes and crawls under the
table!--a nice sort of sportsman _he_ is!'
"Ah, dear, good Felix! just let us see, for a minute or two, what's
inside the boxes." Thus prayed Christlieb; and as Felix always did
anything he could to please her, he at once gave up the idea of being
off to the wood immediately, and patiently sat down with her at the
table on which the boxes were. The mother opened them; and then!--oh!
my very dear readers! you have all been so happy when, at the time of
the yearly fair, or at all events at Christmas, your parents and your
friends flooded you with presents of every delightful kind. Remember
how you danced for joy when pretty soldiers, and little fellows with
barrel-organs, beautifully-dressed dolls, delightful picture-books, and
all the rest, lay and stood before you. Such great delight as was then
yours, Felix and Christlieb now experienced. For a really splendid
assortment of the loveliest toys came out of those boxes, and all sorts
of charming things to eat as well; so that the children clapped their
hands again and again, crying, "Oh, how nice that is!" One paper parcel
of bonbons, however, Felix laid aside with contempt; and when
Christlieb begged him not to throw the glassy sugar out of the window,
as he was going to do, he gave up that idea, and only chucked some of
the bonbons to Sultan, who had come in wagging his tail. Sultan snuffed
at them, and then turned his back on them disdainfully.
"Do you see, Christlieb," Felix cried, "Sultan won't have anything to
do with the wretched stuff."
But, on the whole, none of the toys caused Felix such satisfaction as a
certain little sportsman, who, when a little string which stuck out
beneath his jacket was pulled, put his gun to his shoulder and fired at
a target which was stuck up three spans in front of him. Next to him in
his affections stood a little fellow, who made bows and salaams, and
tinkled on a little harp when you turned a handle. But what pleased him
more than all those things was a gun made of wood, and a hunting
hanger, of wood also, and silvered over; also a beautiful hussar's
busby and a sabretasche. Christlieb was equally delighted with a finely
dressed doll and a set of charming furniture. The children forgot all
about the woods, and enjoyed themselves over their playthings till
quite late in the evening. They then went to their beds.
WHAT HAPPENED WITH THE NEW PLAYTHINGS IN THE WOOD.
Next day the children began where they had left off the night before;
that is to say, they got out the boxes, took forth the toys, and amused
themselves with them in many ways. Just as had been the case the day
before, the sun shone brightly and kindly in at the windows; the
birches, greeted by the sighing morning breeze, whispered and rustled;
the birds rejoiced in loveliest songs of joy. Felix's heart was full of
his sportsman, his harper, his gun, and sabretasche.
"I'll tell you what it is," he cried; "it's much nicer outside! Come,
Christlieb, let's be off to the woods!"
Christlieb had just undressed her big doll, and was going to put its
clothes on again, a matter of the greatest moment and interest to her,
for which reason she would rather not have gone out just then, and
said, in a tone of entreaty, "Hadn't we better stay here and play a
little longer, Felix dear?"
"I'll tell you what well do, Christlieb; we'll take the best of our
toys out to the woods with us. I'll put on my hanger, and sling the gun
over my shoulder; and then, you see, I shall be a regular sportsman.
The little hunter and the harper can come with me, and you can take
your big doll and the best of your other things with you. Come along,
let's be off."
Christlieb hastened to dress her doll as quickly as possible, and then
they both made off to the wood with their playthings. There they
established themselves in a nice, grassy place; and after they had
played for a while, and Felix was making his harper tinkle his little
tune, Christlieb said, "Do you know, Felix, that harper of yours
doesn't play at all nicely. Just listen how wretched it sounds out here
in the wood, that eternal 'ting-ting, plang-plang.' The birds peep down
from the trees as though they were disgusted with that stupid musician
who insists on accompanying them." Felix turned the handle more and
more strenuously, and at length cried, "I think you're right,
Christlieb. What the little fellow plays sounds quite horrible. I'm
quite ashamed to see those thrushes there looking down at me with such
wise eyes. He must make a better job of it." With which Felix screwed
away at the handle with such force that crack! crack! the whole box on
which the harp-man stood flew into a thousand splinters, and his arms
fell down broken.
"Oh, oh!" Felix cried. "Ah! poor little harper!" sighed Christlieb.
Felix looked at the broken toy for a minute or two, and then said,
"Well, he was a stupid, senseless chap, after all. He played terribly
poor music, and made faces, and bowed and scraped like our cousin
Pump-breeks;" and he shied the harp-player as far as he could into the
thicket. "What I like is my sportsman here," he went on to say. "He
makes a bull's-eye every time he fires over and over again." And he
kept on making him score a long succession of bull's-eyes accordingly.
When this had gone on for some time, however, Felix said, "It's stupid,
all the same, that he should always make bull's-eyes; so very
unsportsmanlike, you know--papa says so. A real sportsman has got to
shoot deer, hares, and so forth, running. I can't have this chap going
on aiming at a target; mustn't be any more of it; one gets weary of it;
won't do." And Felix broke off the target which was fixed up in front
of the shooting-man. "Now then," he cried, "fire away into the open."
But it was in vain that he pulled at the thread; the little man's arms
hung limp and motionless; the gun rose no more to his shoulder--his
shooting was at an end.
"Ha! ha!" Felix cried; "you could shoot at your target indoors; but out
in the woods here, where the sportsman's home is, you can't, eh? I
suppose you're afraid of dogs, too; and if one were to come you would
take to your heels, gun and all, as cousin Pump-breeks did with his
sword, wouldn't you? ugh! you stupid, useless dunderhead;" with which
Felix shied him into the bushes after the harp-man.
"Come, let's run about a bit," he said to Christlieb. "Ah, yes, let
us," said she; "this lovely doll of mine shall run with us too; that
will be fun."
So Felix and Christlieb took each an arm of the doll, and off they set
in full career, through the bushes, down the brae, and on and on till
they came to a small lake, engarlanded with water-plants, which was on
their father's property, and where he sometimes shot wild-duck. Here
they came to a stand, and Felix said, "Suppose we wait here a little. I
have a gun now, you know, and perhaps I may hit a duck among the
rushes, like father."
At that moment Christlieb screamed out, "Oh! just look at my doll;
what's the matter with her?"
Indeed, that poor thing was in a miserable condition enough. Neither
Felix nor Christlieb had been paying any attention to her during their
run, and so the bushes had torn all the clothes off her back, both her
handsome legs were broken, and of the pretty waxen face there was
scarcely a trace remaining, so marred and hideous did it appear.
"Oh, my poor, beautiful doll!" wept Christlieb.
"There, you see!" cried Felix; "those are the sort of trashy things
those two stupid creatures brought and gave us. That doll of yours is
nothing more or less than a stupid, idiotic slut. Can't so much as come
for a little run with us but she must get her clothes all torn off her
back, and herself spoilt and destroyed. Give me hold of her!"
Christlieb sorrowfully complied, and could scarcely restrain a cry of
"Oh, oh!" as he chucked the doll, without more ado, into the pond.
"Never mind, dear!" Felix said, consoling his sister. "Never mind about
the wretched thing. If I can only shoot a duck, you shall have all the
beautiful wing feathers."
A rustle was heard amongst the rushes, and Felix instantly took aim
with his wooden gun. But he moved it away from his shoulder speedily,
saying--"Am I not a tremendous idiot myself?" Looking reflectively
before him for a few minutes, he continued softly--
"How can a fellow shoot without powder and shot? And have I either the
one or the other? And then, could I put powder into a wooden gun?
What's the use, after all, of the stupid, wooden thing? And the
hunting-knife! wooden, too. Can neither cut nor stab. Of course my
cousin's sword was wooden as well! That was why he couldn't draw it
when he was afraid of Sultan. I see what it all comes too. Cousin
Pump-breeks was making a fool of me with his playthings, which only
make-believe to be things, and are nothing but useless trumpery." With
which Felix shied the gun, the hunting knife, and finally the
sabretasche into the pond. But Christlieb was terribly distressed about
her doll, and Felix himself couldn't help being annoyed at the way
things had turned out. And in this mood of mind they crept back to the
house; and when their mother asked them what had become of their
playthings, Felix truthfully related how they had been deceived in the
harper, the gun, the sabretasche, and the doll.
"Ah! you foolish children!" cried Frau von Brakel, half angry; "you
don't know how to deal with nice toys of the kind."
But Baron Thaddeus, who had listened to Felix's tale with evident
satisfaction, said, "Let the children alone; at the bottom, I am very
glad they are fairly rid of those playthings. They didn't understand
them, and were only bothered and vexed by them."
Neither Frau von Brakel nor the children understood what the Baron
meant in so saying.
THE STRANGER CHILD.
Soon after those events, Felix and Christlieb had run off to the wood
very early one morning. Their mother had impressed upon them that they
were to be home very soon again, because it was necessary that they
should stay in the house and read and write a great deal more than they
used to do, that they might not lose countenance before the tutor, who
was expected very soon. Wherefore Felix said, "We must jump and run
about as much as we can for the little while that we are allowed to
stay out here, that's all." So they immediately began to play at hare
and hounds.
But that game, and also every other that they tried to play at, very
soon only wearied them, and failed to amuse them after a second or two.
They could not understand why it was that, on that particular day,
thousands of vexatious annoyances should keep continually happening to
them. The wind carried Felix's cap away into the bushes; he stumbled
and fell down on his nose as he was running his best. Christlieb found
herself hanging by her clothes in a thorn-tree, or banged her foot
against a sharp stone, so that she had to shrink with pain. They soon
gave it all up, and slunk along dejectedly through the wood.
"Let's go home," said Felix; "there's nothing else for it."
But instead of doing so, he threw himself down under a shady tree;
Christlieb followed his example; and there the children lay, depressed
and wretched, gazing at the ground.
"Ah!" said Christlieb; "if we only had our nice playthings."
"Bosh!" growled Felix; "what the better should we be? We should only
smash them up and destroy them again. I'll tell you what it is,
Christlieb. Mother is not far wrong, I suspect. The playthings were all
right enough. But we didn't know how to play with them. And that's
because we don't know anything about the 'sciences,' as they call
them."
"You're quite right, Felix, dear," Christlieb said; "if we knew the
'sciences' all by heart, as those dressed-up cousins of ours do, we
should still have your harp-man and your sportsman; and my poor doll
would not be at the bottom of the duck-pond. Poor things that we are!
Ah! we know nothing about the 'sciences'!"
And therewith Christlieb began to sob and cry bitterly, and Felix
joined her in so doing. And they both howled and lamented till the wood
re-echoed again, crying, "Poor unfortunate children that we are! we
know nothing of the 'sciences.'"
But suddenly they ceased, and asked one another in amazement--
"Do you see, Christlieb?" "Do you hear, Felix?"
From out the deepest shades of the dark thicket which lay before the
children, a wonderful luminousness began to shine, playing like
moonlight over the leaves, which trembled in ecstasy. And through the
whispering trees there came a sweet musical tone, like that which we
hear when the wind awakens the chords slumbering within a harp. The
children felt a sense of awe come over them. All their vexation had
passed away from them; but tears of a sweet, unknown pain rose to their
eyes.
As the radiance streamed brighter through the bushes, and the
marvellous music-tones grew louder and louder, the children's hearts
beat high: they gazed eagerly at the brightness, and then they saw,
smiling at them from the thicket, the face of the most beautiful child
imaginable, with the sun beaming on it in all its splendour.
"Oh, come to us!--come to us, darling child!" cried Christlieb and
Felix, as they stretched their arms with indescribable longing towards
the beautiful creature. "I am coming!--I am coming!" a sweet voice
cried from the bushes; and then, as if borne on the wings of the
morning breeze, the Stranger Child seemed to come hovering over to
Christlieb and Felix.
HOW THE STRANGER CHILD PLAYED WITH FELIX AND CHRISTLIEB.
"I thought I heard you, out of the distance, crying and lamenting,"
said the Stranger Child, "and then I was very sorry for you. What is
the matter, you dear children?--what is it you want?"
"Ah," Felix said, "we didn't quite know what it was that we _did_ want!
But now, as far as I can make out, what we wanted was just you
yourself." "That is it!" Christlieb chimed in; "now that you are with
us, we are happy again. Why were you so long in coming?"
In fact, both children felt as though they had known and played with
the Stranger Child for a long time already, and that their unhappiness
had been only because this beloved playmate was not with them.
"You see," Felix said, in continuation, "we really haven't got any
playthings left; for I, like a stupid fool, went and destroyed a number
of the very finest, which my cousin Pump-breeks gave me, and I shied
them away. Never mind; we shall play somehow for all that."
"How can you talk so, Felix," said the Stranger Child, laughing aloud.
"Certainly the stuff you threw away wasn't of much value; but you, and
Christlieb too, are in the very middle of a quantity of the most
exquisite play-things that were ever seen."
"Where--where are they?" Felix and Christlieb cried.
"Look round you," said the Stranger Child; and Felix and Christlieb
then saw how, out of the thick grass and the wool-like moss, all sorts
of glorious flowers were peeping, with bright eyes gleaming, and
between them many-coloured stones and crystalline shells sparkled and
shone, while little golden insects danced up and down, humming little
gentle songs.
"Now we will build a palace," said the Stranger Child. "Help me to get
the stones together." And the Stranger stooped down and began choosing
stones of pretty colours. Felix and Christlieb helped, and the Stranger
Child knew so well how to set the stones up on one another that soon
there arose tall columns, shining in the sun like polished metal, while
an aerial golden roof vaulted itself over them at the top. Then the
Stranger Child kissed the flowers which were peeping from the ground;
when, with sweet whisperings, they shot up higher, and, embracing each
other lovingly, formed sweet-scented arcades and covered walks, in
which the children danced about, full of delight and gladness. The
Stranger Child clapped hands; and then the golden roof of the palace,
which was formed of insects' golden wings vaulted together, went
asunder with a hum, and the pillars melted away into a plashing silver
stream, on whose banks the varied flowers took up their stations, and
peered inquiringly into its ripples, or, moving their heads from side
to side, listened to its baby pattering. Then the Stranger Child
plucked blades of grass, and gathered little twigs from trees, strewing
them down before Felix and Christlieb. But those blades of grass
presently turned into the prettiest little dolls ever seen; and the
twigs became delicious little huntsmen. The dolls danced round
Christlieb; let her take them up in her lap, and whispered, in delicate
little voices, "Be kind to us!--love us, dearest Christlieb!" The
hunters shouted, "Halloa! halloa! the hunt's up!" and blew their horns,
and bustled about. Then hares came darting out of the bushes, with dogs
after them, and the hunters banging about. This was delightful.
Then all disappeared again. Christlieb and Felix cried, "What has
become of the dolls? where are the hunters?" The Stranger Child said,
"Oh, they are all at your disposal; they are close by you at any moment
when you want them. But hadn't you rather come on through the wood a
little now?" "Oh, yes! yes!" cried Felix and Christlieb. The Stranger
Child took hold of their hands, crying, "Come; come!"
And with that they went off. But it could not be called "running,"
really, for the children floated along, lightly and easily, through
amongst the trees, whilst all the bird's went fluttering along beside
them, singing and warbling in the blithest fashion. All of a sudden up
they soared, far into the sky. "Good morning, children! Good morning,
Fritz, my crony!" cried the stork in the by-going.
"Don't hurt me! don't hurt me!" screamed the hawk. "I'm not going to
touch your pigeons." And he swept away as hard as his long wings would
carry him, alarmed at the children. Felix shouted with delight, but
Christlieb was frightened. "Oh, my breath's going!" she cried; "I shall
tumble!" And just at that moment the Stranger Child let them all
three down to the ground again, and said: "Now I shall sing you the
Forest-Song, as a good-bye for to-day. I shall come again to-morrow."
Then the Child took out a little horn, of which the golden windings
looked almost as if made of wreaths of flowers, and began to sound it
so beautifully that the whole wood echoed wondrously with the lovely
music of it, whilst the nightingales (which had come up fluttering as
if in answer to the horn's summons, and were sitting on the branches,
as close as they could to the children) sang their sweetest songs. But
all at once the music grew fainter and fainter, till nothing of it
remained but a soft whisper, which seemed to come from the thicket into
which the Stranger Child had disappeared. "To-morrow!--to-morrow I come
again!" the children could just hear, as if from an immense distance.
They could not give themselves any explanation of their feelings, for
never, never had they known such happiness and enjoyment before in
their lives.
"And, oh, I wish it were to-morrow now!" they both cried, as they
hastened home as hard as they could, to tell their parents all that had
happened to them.
WHAT BARON VON BRAKEL AND HIS LADY SAID, AND WHAT
HAPPENED FURTHER.
"I could almost fancy the children had dreamt all this," the Baron said
to his wife, when Felix and Christlieb, full of the Stranger Child,
could not cease from talking of all that had happened--the
delightsomeness of their new friend, the exquisite music, the wonderful
events generally--"but then," said the Baron, "when I remember that
they could not both have dreamt just the same things at the same time,
really, when all's said and done, I cannot get to the bottom of it
all."
"Don't trouble your head about it, dear," said Frau von Brakel. "My
idea is that this Stranger Child was nobody but the schoolmaster's boy,
Gottlieb, from the village. It must have been he that ran over, and put
all this nonsense in the children's heads. We must take care that he is
not allowed to do it any more."
The Baron, was by no means of his wife's opinion; and, with the view of
getting better at the rights and wrongs of the affair, the children
were brought in and made to describe minutely what the child was like;
how it was dressed, and so forth. With respect to its appearance, both
Felix and Christlieb agreed that its face was fair as the lilies; that
it had cheeks like roses, cherry lips, bright blue eyes, locks of
golden hair, and that it was more beautiful altogether than words could
tell. As regarded its dress, all they knew was that it certainly had
not a blue-striped jacket and trousers, or a black leather cap, such as
the schoolmaster's Gottlieb wore. On the other hand, all they said of
its dress sounded utterly fabulous and absurd. For Christlieb said its
dress was wondrous beautiful, shining and gleaming, as if made of the
petals of roses; whilst Felix maintained that it was sparkling golden
green, like spring-leaves in the sunshine. Felix further said that the
child could not possibly have any connection with such a person as a
school master, because it was too deeply acquainted with sportsmanship
and woodcraft, and must consequently belong to some very home and
head-quarters of forest lore, and was going to be the grandest
sportsman ever heard of. "Oh, Felix!" Christlieb broke in, "how can you
say that dear little girl could ever be a sportsman? She may, perhaps,
know a good deal about that too, but I'm sure she knows a great deal
more about house-management; or how should she have dressed those dolls
for me so beautifully, and made such delightful dishes?" Thus Felix
thought the Stranger Child was a boy, and Christlieb, a girl; and those
contradictory opinions could not be reconciled.
Fran von Brakel thought it was a pity to go into nonsense of this kind
with children; but the Baron thought differently, and said: "I should
only have to follow the children into the woods, to find out what
wondrous sort of creature this is that comes to play with them; but I
can't help feeling that if I did I should spoil what is for them a
great pleasure; and for that reason I don't want to do it."
Next day, when Felix and Christlieb went off to the wood at the usual
time, they found the Stranger Child waiting for them; and, if their
play had been glorious on the former day, this day the Stranger Child
did the most miraculous things imaginable, so that Felix and Christlieb
shouted for rapture over and over again. It was delicious and most
enjoyable that, during their play, the Stranger Child talked so
prettily and comprehendingly with the trees, the bushes, the flowers,
and the brook which ran through the wood, and they all answered so
understandably that Felix and Christlieb knew everything that they
said.
The Stranger Child said to the alder-thicket, "What is it that you
black-looking folks are muttering and whispering to each other again?"
and the branches took to shaking more forcibly, and they laughed and
whispered "Ha, ha, ha! we are delighting ourselves over the charming
things that friend Morning-breeze was saying to us when he came
rustling over from the blue hills, in advance of the sunbeams. He
brought us thousands of greetings and kisses from the Golden Queen; and
plenty of wing-waftings, full of the sweetest perfume."
"Oh, silence!" the flowers broke in, interrupting the talk of the
branches. "Hold your tongues on the score of that flatterer, who is so
vain about the perfumes which his false caresses rob us of. Never mind
the thickets, children; let them lisp and whisper; look at us--listen
to us. We love you so, and we dress ourselves out, day by day, in the
loveliest colours merely to give you pleasure."
"And do we not love _you_, you beautiful flowers?" said the Stranger
Child. But Christlieb knelt down on the ground, and stretched out her
arms, as if she would take all the beautiful flowers to her heart,
crying, "Ah, I love you all, every one of you!" Felix cried, "I love
you all, too, flowers, in your bright dresses. Still I dote upon green,
and the woods, and the trees. The woods have to take care of you, and
shelter you, bonny little things that you are."
Then came a sighing out of the tall, dark fir-trees; and they said,
"That is very true, you clever boy; and you are not to be afraid of us,
when our cousin, the storm, comes rushing at us, and we have to hold a
rather strenuous bit of argument with that rough customer."
"All right," said Felix. "Groan, and sigh, and snarl as much as you
like, you green giants that you are; _then_ is when the real woodsman's
heart begins to rejoice."
"You are quite right there," the forest brook plashed and rustled. "But
what is the good of always hunting--always rushing in storm and
turmoil? Come, and sit down nicely among the moss, and listen to me. I
come from far-away places, out of a deep, dark, rocky cleft. I have
delightful tales to tell you; and always something new, wave after
wave, for ever and ever. And I will show you the loveliest pictures, if
you will but look properly into this clear mirror of mine. Vaporous
blue of the sky--golden clouds--bushes, flowers and trees, and your
very selves, you beautiful children, I draw lovingly into the depths of
my bosom."
"Felix and Christlieb," said the Stranger Child, looking round with
wondrous blissfulness, "only listen how they all love us. But the
redness of the evening is rising behind the hills, and the nightingale
is calling me home."
"Oh, but let us just fly a little, as we did yesterday," Felix prayed.
"Yes," said Christlieb, "but not quite so high. It makes my head so
giddy."
Then the Stranger Child took them by the hands again, and they went
soaring up into the golden purple of the evening sky, while the birds
crowded and sang round them. That was a shouting and a jubilating! In
the shining clouds Felix saw, as if in wavering flame, beautiful
castles all of rubies and other precious stones. "Look! look!
Christlieb!" he cried, full of rapture, "look at all those splendid
palaces! Let us fly along as fast as we can, and we shall get to them."
Christlieb saw the castles too, and forgot her fear, as she was not
looking down, this time, but up before her.
"Those are my beloved air-castles," the Stranger Child said. "But I
don't think we shall get any further to-day.".
Felix and Christlieb seemed to be in a dream, and could not make out at
all how they came to find themselves, presently, with their father and
mother.
CONCERNING THE STRANGER CHILD'S HOME.
In the most beautiful part of the wood beside the brook, between
whispering bushes, the Stranger Child had set up a most glorious tent,
made of tall, slender lilies, glowing roses, and tulips of every hue;
and beneath this tent Felix and Christlieb were sitting with the
Stranger Child, listening to the forest-brook as it went on whispering
the strangest things imaginable.
"I'll tell you, darling boy," Felix said, "I can't properly understand
all that he, there, is saying; but I somehow feel that _you_ could tell
me, clearly and distinctly, what it is that he goes on murmuring. But
most of all I should like you to tell me where it is that you come
from, and where it is that you go away to, so fast, so fast, that we
never can make out how you do it."
"Do you know, sweetest girl," said Christlieb, "our mother thinks you
are the schoolmaster's boy, Gottlieb."
"Hold your tongue, stupid thing!" Felix cried. "Mother has never seen
this darling boy, or she wouldn't have talked about the schoolmaster's
Gottlieb. But come now, tell me where it is that you live, dear boy;
fur we want to go and see you at your home in the winter time, when it
storms and snows, and nobody can trace a track in the woods."
"Yes, yes!" said Christlieb. "Tell us, like a darling, where your home
is; and all about your father and mother, and more than all, what your
own name is."
The Stranger Child looked very thoughtfully at the sky, almost
sorrowfully, and gave a deep sigh. Then, after some moments of silence,
the Stranger Child said, "Ah, my dears, why must you ask about my home?
Is it not enough for you that I come every day and play with you? I
might tell you that my home lies behind those distant hills, which are
like dim, jagged clouds. But though you were to travel day after day,
for ever and ever, till you were standing on those hills, you would
always see other, and other ranges of hills, further and further away,
and my home would still be beyond them; and even if you reached them,
you would still see others further away, and would have to go to them,
and you would never come to where my home is."
"Ah me!" sighed Christlieb. "Then you must live hundreds and hundreds
of miles away from us. It is only on a sort of visit that you are
here?"
"Christlieb, darling," the Stranger Child said; "whenever you long for
me with all your heart, I am with you immediately, bringing you all
those plays and wonders from my home with me; and is not that quite as
good as if we were in my home together, playing there?"
"Not at all," Felix said; "for I believe that your home is some most
glorious place, full of all sorts of delightful things which you
bring--some of them--here with you. I don't care how hard you may say
the road is to your home, I mean to set out upon it this minute. To
work one's way through forests--by difficult tracks--to climb
mountains, and wade rivers, and break through all sorts of thickets,
and clamber over rugged rocks--all that is a woodsman's proper
business, and I'm going to do it."
"And so you shall!" said the Stranger Child, smiling pleasantly; "for
when you put it all so clearly before you, and make up your mind to it,
it is as good as done. The land where I live is, in truth, so beautiful
and glorious that I can give you no description of it. It is my mother
who reigns over that country--all glory and loveliness--as queen."
"Ah, you are a prince!" "Ah, then, you are a princess! the two children
cried together, amazed, and almost terrified.
"I am, certainly," the Stranger Child replied.
"Then you live in a beautiful palace?" Felix cried.
"Yes," said the Stranger Child. "My mother's palace is far more
beautiful than those glittering castles which you saw in the evening
clouds; for the gleaming pillars of her palace are all of the purest
crystal, and they soar, slender and tall, into the blue of heaven; and
upon them there rests a great, wide canopy; beneath that canopy sail
the shining clouds, hither and thither, on golden wings, and the red of
the evening and the morning rises and falls, and the sparkling stars
dance in singing circles. Dearest playmates, you have heard of the
fairies, who can bring about the most glorious wonders, as mortal men
cannot; now, my mother is one of the most powerful fairies of all. All
that lives and moves on earth she holds embraced to her heart in the
purest and truest love; although, to her inward pain, many human beings
will not allow themselves to come to any knowledge of her. But my
mother loves children most of all; and thence it is that the festivals
which she holds in her kingdom for children are the most splendid and
glorious of all. It is then that beautiful spirits belonging to my
mother's kingdom, and to her royal palace, fly deftly through the sky,
weaving and combining a shining rainbow, from one end of her palace to
another, gleaming in the most brilliant dyes. Under those rainbows they
build my mother's diamond throne, all of nothing but diamonds--diamonds
which are, in appearance and in perfume, like lilies, roses, and
carnations; and when my mother takes her place on her throne, the
spirits play on their golden harps and their crystal cymbals, and to
those instruments the court singers of her court sing with voices so
marvellous, that one could die of rapture to hear them. Now, those
singers are beautiful birds, bigger even than eagles, with feathers all
purple-red, such as you have never seen the like of. And as soon as
their music begins, everything in the palace, the woods, and the
gardens moves and sings; and all around there are thousands of
beautiful children in charming dresses, shouting and delighting. They
chase each other amongst the bushes, and throw flowers at each other in
play; they climb trees, where the winds swing them and rock them; they
gather gold-glittering fruit, which tastes as nothing on earth does;
and they play with tame deer and other charming creatures which come
bounding up to them from among the trees; then they run up and down the
rainbows, or they ride on the golden pheasants, which fly up among the
gleaming clouds with them on their backs."
"How delightful that must be!" Christlieb and Felix cried with rapture.
"Oh, take us with you to your home! We want to stay there always!"
But the Stranger Child said, "I cannot take you with me to my home; it
is too far away. You would have to be able to fly as far and as
strongly as I can myself."
Felix and Christlieb were very sorry, and cast their eyes sadly down to
the ground.
THE WICKED MINISTER AT THE FAIRY QUEEN'S COURT.
"And then," the Stranger Child continued, "you might not be as happy as
you expect at my mother's court. Indeed, it might be a misfortune for
you to go there. There are many children who cannot bear the singing of
those purple-red birds, glorious as it is: it breaks their hearts, and
they are obliged to die immediately. Others, who are too pert and
adventurous in running up and down the rainbows, slip, and fall; and
there are many who are so stupid and awkward, that they hurt the gold
pheasants when they are riding on them. Then those birds, though they
are good-tempered and kind-hearted, take this amiss, and they tear
those children's breasts open with their sharp beaks, so that they fall
down from the clouds bleeding. My mother is very very sorry when
children come to misfortune in those ways, although it is all their own
fault when they do. She would be only too happy if all the children in
the world could enjoy the pleasures of her court and kingdom. But,
although there are plenty who can fly strongly enough and far enough,
they are often either too forward, or too timid, and cause her only
sorrow and pain; and that is why she allows me to fly away from my
home, and take to nice children all sorts of delightful playthings, as
I have done to you."
"Ah," cried Christlieb, "I am sure I could never do anything to hurt
those beautiful birds! But to run up and down a rainbow, that I am
certain I never could. I shouldn't like that."
"Now that would be just what I should delight in," Felix said; "and
that is the very reason why I want to go and see your mother, the
queen. Couldn't you bring one of those rainbows here with you?"
"No," the Stranger Child said, "I could not do that. And I must tell
you that I have only been able to come to you by stealing away from
home. Once on a time, I was quite safe every where, just as if I were
at home, and my mother's beautiful kingdom seemed to extend all over
the world; but now that a bitter enemy of hers, whom she has banished
from her kingdom, is going raging about everywhere, I cannot be safe
from being watched, pursued, and molested."
"Well," Felix cried, jumping up, and shieing the thorn-stick which he
was cutting into the air, "I should like to come across the fellow who
would do anything to harm you! He would have to do with me in the first
place; and then I should send for father, and he would have him taken
up and put in the tower."
"Ah," the Stranger Child said, "powerless as my bitter enemy is to harm
me when I am at home, he is terribly dangerous when I am not there, and
neither sticks nor prisons can protect me from him!"
"What sort of a nasty creature is it, then," Christlieb inquired, "that
can do you so much harm?"
"I have told you that my mother is a mighty queen," the Stranger Child
said; "and you know that queens, like kings, have courts and ministers
belonging to them."
"Yes, yes," said Felix. "My own uncle, the count, is one of those
ministers, and wears a star on his breast. Do your mother's ministers
wear stars like him?"
"No," the Stranger Child said; "not exactly that; for most of them are
shining stars themselves, and others of them do not wear any coats on
which they could stick things of the sort. I must tell you that my
mother's ministers are all powerful spirits, either hovering in the
sky, or dwelling in the waters, doing, and carrying out everywhere what
my mother orders them to do. Once, a long while ago, there came amongst
us a stranger, who called himself Pepasilio, who said he was very
learned, and could do more, and accomplish greater things, than all the
others of us. My mother took him in amongst the ranks of her other
ministers; but his natural spite and wickedness very soon developed
themselves and came to light, Not only did he strive to undo all that
the other ministers did, but he set himself specially to spoil all the
happy enjoyments of children. He had pretended to the queen that he, of
all others, was the very spirit who could make children glad, and
happy, and clever; but instead of that, he hung himself with a weight
of lead on to the tails of the pheasants, so that they could not fly
aloft any more; and when the children climbed up the rose-trees, he
would drag them down by the legs, so that they knocked their noses on
the ground and made them bleed; and any that were jumping and dancing
he dashed down to the ground, to go crawling wretchedly about there
with downcast heads. Those who were singing he crammed all sorts of
nasty stuff into the mouths of, so that they had to stop; for singing
he could not abide. As for the poor tame beasts, he always wanted to
eat them, instead of playing with them, for he said that was what they
were meant for. The worst was, that with the help of his followers, he
had a way of smearing all the beautiful, sparkling precious stones of
the palace, the many-tinted glowing flowers, the roses and lilies, and
even the shining rainbows, with a horrible black juice, so that all the
glory and the beauty of them was gone, and everything became sorrowful
and dead. And when he had accomplished this, he would out with a loud
ringing laugh, and say that everything was now just as he wished
it to be. But when, at last, he declared that he did not consider my
mother to be queen at all, and that the rule really belonged to him
alone,--and when he went hovering up in the shape of an enormous fly,
with flashing eyes, and a great trunk, or snout, sticking out, all
about my mother's throne, buzzing and humming in an abominable
manner,--then she, and all the rest of her court, saw that this
malignant minister, who had come amongst us under the fine name of
Pepasilio, was none other than Pepser, the morose and gloomy King of
the Gnomes. But he had foolishly overestimated his power, as well as
the bravery of his followers. The ministers of the Air department
surrounded the queen, and fanned perfumed breezes towards her, whilst
the ministers of the Fire department rushed up and down in billows of
flame, and the singers (whose bills had been cleaned out) chanted the
most full-voiced choruses, so that the queen neither saw nor heard the
ugly Pepser, neither could she be aware of his evil-smelling breath.
Moreover, at that moment, the pheasant prince seized him with his
glittering beak, and gripped him so strenuously that he screamed with
agony and rage; and then the pheasant prince let him down to the earth
from a height of three thousand ells, so that he could not stir hand or
foot till his aunt, and crony, the great blue toad, took him on her
back, and so carried him home. Five hundred fine sprightly children
armed themselves with fly-flappers, with which they banged Pepser's
horrible followers to death, when they were still swarming about
intending to destroy all the beautiful flowers. Now, as soon as Pepser
was gone, all the black juice which he had covered everything over
with, flowed away of itself, and everything was restored, and was soon
beaming and shining, and blooming as gloriously as ever. You may
imagine that this horrid Pepser has no more power in my mother's
kingdom. But he knows that I often venture out, and he follows me
everywhere, in shapes of every kind, so that, wretched child that I am,
I often do not know where to hide myself in my flight; and that is why
I often get away from you so quickly that you cannot see what becomes
of me. Therefore things must go on just as they are; and I can assure
you that if I were to try to take you with me to my home, Pepser would
be sure to lie in wait for us, and kill us."
Christlieb wept bitterly over the danger to which the Stranger Child
must always be exposed. But Felix said, "If that horrible Pepser is
nothing but a great fly, I'll soon be at him with father's big
fly-flapper; and if once I give him a good crack on the nose with it,
Aunty Toad will have a job to get him home, I can tell her."
HOW THE TUTOR ARRIVED, AND HOW THE CHILDREN WERE
AFRAID OF HIM.
Felix and Christlieb ran home as fast as they could, crying, as they
went, "Ah! the Stranger Child is a beautiful prince!"--"Ah! the
Stranger Child is a beautiful princess!" They wanted, in their delight,
to tell this to their parents; but they stood at the door like marble
statues when they found the baron meeting them there with a stranger at
his side, an extraordinary-looking personage, who muttered to himself,
half intelligibly, "Ah, a nice pair of gawkies those are, it seems to
me!"
The baron took him by the hand, saying, "This gentleman is the tutor
whom your gracious uncle has sent. So say, 'How-do-you do, sir?' to him
properly."
But the children looked askance at the man, and could move neither
hand nor foot. This was because they had never seen such an
extraordinary-looking creature. He was scarcely more than half a head
taller than Felix; but he was stumpy and thick-set, and his little
weasened legs formed an astonishing contrast with his body, which
was stout and powerful. His shapeless head was almost to be called
four-square, and his face was almost too ugly altogether. For not only
was his nose much too long and sharp-pointed to suit with his fat,
brownish cheeks, and his wide mouth, but his little prominent eyes
glittered so alarmingly that one hardly liked to look at him. Moreover,
he had a black periwig crammed on to his four-cornered head; he was
clad in black from top to toe, and his name was "Tutor Ink."
Now, as the children stood staring like stone images, their mother got
angry, and cried, "Good gracious, children, what are you thinking of?
This gentleman will take you for a pair of raw country gabies! Come,
come; give him your hands!"
The children, taking heart of grace, did as their mother bade them. But
as soon as the tutor took hold of their hands, they jumped back with a
loud cry of "Oh! oh! It hurts!" The tutor laughed aloud, and showed a
needle which he had hidden in his hand, to prick the children with.
Christlieb was weeping; but Felix growled, in an aside, "Just you try
that again, little Big-belly!"
"Why did you do that, dear Mr. Tutor Ink?" the baron asked, rather
annoyed.
The tutor answered, "Well, it is my way; I can't alter it!" With which
he stuck his hands in his sides, and went on laughing, till at length
his laughter sounded as ugly as the noise of a broken rattle.
"You seem to be a person fond of your little jokes, Master Tutor Ink!"
the baron said. But he, and his wife, and most particularly the
children, were beginning to feel very eery and uncomfortable. "Well,
well," said Tutor Ink, "what sort of a state are these little crabs
here in? Pretty well grounded in the sciences? We'll see directly."
With which he began to ask questions of Felix and Christlieb, of the
sort that their uncle and aunt had asked of their cousins. But, as they
both declared that, as yet, they did not know any of the sciences, by
heart, Tutor Ink beat his hands over his head till everything rang
again, and cried, like a man possessed, "A pretty story indeed! No
sciences! Then we've got our work cut out for us. However, we shall
soon make a job of it."
Felix and Christlieb could both write fairly well, and, from many old
books which their father put in their hands, and which they were fond
of reading, they had learned a good many pretty stories, and could
repeat them. But Tutor Ink despised all this, and said it was stupid
nonsense.
Alas! there was no more running about in the woods to be so much as
thought of. Instead of that, the children had to sit within the four
walls of the house all day long, and babble, after Tutor Ink,
things which they did not in the least understand. It was really a
heart-breaking business. With what longing eyes they looked at the
woods! Often it was as if they heard, amidst the happy songs of the
birds, and the rustling of the trees, the Stranger Child's voice
calling to them and saying, "Felix! Christlieb! are you not coming any
more to play with me? Oh, come! I have made you a palace, all of
flowers; we will sit there, and I will give you all sorts of beautiful
stones, and then we'll soar into the air, and build ourselves
cloud-castles. Come! oh come!"
At this, the children were drawn to the woods with all their thoughts,
and neither saw nor heard their tutor any longer. But he would get very
angry, thump on the table with both his fists, and hum, and growl, and
snarl, "Pim--sim--prr--srr knurr kirr--what's all this? Wait a little!
"Felix, however, did not endure this very long; he jumped up, and
cried, "Don't bother me with your stupid nonsense, Mr. Ink; I must be
off to the woods! Go and get hold of Cousin Pumpbreeks; that's the sort
of stuff for _him_. Come along, Christlieb! The Stranger Child is
waiting for us;" with which they started off. But Tutor Ink sprang
after them with remarkable agility, and seized hold of them just
outside the door. Felix fought like a man, and Tutor Ink was on the
point of getting the worst of it, as the faithful Sultan came to
Felix's help. Sultan--generally a good, kindly-behaved dog took a
strong dislike to Tutor Ink the moment he set eyes on him. Whenever the
tutor came near him, he growled, and swept about him so forcibly with
his tail that he nearly knocked the tutor down, managing deftly to hit
him great thumps on his little weazened legs. So Sultan came dashing
up, when Felix was holding the tutor by the shoulders, and hung on to
his coat-tails. Master Ink raised a doleful yell, which brought up the
baron to the rescue. The tutor let go his hold of Felix, and Sultan let
go his hold on the tutor's coat-tails.
"He said we weren't to go to the woods any more," cried Christlieb,
weeping and lamenting. And although the baron gave Felix a good
scolding, he was very sorry that the children might not go wandering,
as they used, amongst the trees and bushes, and told the tutor that he
wished him to go with them into the woods for a certain time every day.
The tutor did not like the idea at all. He said, "Ah, Herr Baron, if
you had but a sensible piece of garden, with nicely-clipped box, and
railed-in enclosures, one might go and take the children for a little
walk there of forenoons! But what in all the world is the good of going
into a wild forest?"
The children did not like it either, saying, "What business has Tutor
Ink in our darling wood?"
HOW TUTOR INK TOOK THE CHILDREN FOR A WALK IN THE
WOODS, AND WHAT HAPPENED ON THE OCCASION.
"Well, Master Ink, isn't it delightful in our wood here?" Felix said,
as they were making their way through the rustling thickets. Tutor Ink
made a face, and answered, "Stupid nonsense! There's no road. All that
one does is to tear one's stockings. And one can't say or hear a word
of sense, for the abominable screaming noise the birds are making."
"Ha, ha! master," said Felix, "I see you don't know anything about
singing! And I daresay you don't hear when the morning wind is talking
with the bushes, and the old forest brook is telling all those
delightful tales." "And you don't even love the flowers," Christlieb
chimed in; "do you, master?"
At this the tutor's face became of even a deeper cherry-brown than it
was usually; and he beat with his hands about him, crying, "What
stupid, ridiculous nonsense you are talking! Who has put such trash in
your heads? Who ever heard that woods and streams had got the length of
engaging in rational conversation? Neither is there anything in the
chirping of birds. I like flowers well enough when they are nicely
arranged in a room in glasses. They smell then; and one doesn't require
a scent-bottle. But there are no proper flowers in woods."
"But don't you see those dear little lilies of the valley, peeping up
at you with such bright, loving eyes?" Christlieb said.
"What? what?" the tutor screamed. "Flowers--eyes? Ha, ha! Nice 'eyes'
indeed! The useless things haven't even got what you would call a
smell!" With which Master Ink bent down and plucked up a handful of
them, roots and all, and chucked them away into the thickets. To the
children it seemed, almost, as if they heard a cry of pain pass through
the wood. Christlieb could not help bitter tears, and Felix gnashed his
teeth in anger. Just then, a little siskin went fluttering close past
the tutor's nose, alighted on a branch, and began a joyous song. "That
is a mockingbird, I think!" said the tutor; and, taking up a stone, he
threw it at the poor bird, which it struck, and silenced into death; it
fell from the green branch to the ground.
Felix could restrain himself no longer. "You horrible Tutor Ink," he
cried, "what had the bird done to you that you should strike it dead?
Ah, where are you, you beautiful Stranger Child? Oh come! only come!
Let us fly far, far away. I cannot stay beside this horrible creature
any longer. I want to go to your home with you." Christlieb chimed in,
sobbing and weeping bitterly, crying, "Oh, thou darling child, come to
us, come to us! Rescue us, rescue us! Tutor Ink is killing us, as he is
killing the flowers and the birds."
"What do you mean by the Stranger Child?" Tutor Ink asked. But at that
instant there came a louder whispering and rustling amongst the bushes,
mingled with melancholy, heart-breaking tones, as if of muffled bells
tolling in the far distance. In a shining cloud, which came sailing
over above them, they saw the beautiful face of the Stranger Child, and
presently it came wholly into view, wringing its little hands, whilst
tears, like glittering pearls streamed down its rosy cheeks. "Ah,
darling playmates," cried the Stranger Child, in tones of sorrow, "I
cannot come to you any more. You will never see me again. Farewell,
farewell! The gnome Pepser has you in his power. Oh, you poor children,
good-bye, good-bye!" and the Stranger Child soared up far into the sky.
But, at the children's backs, there began a horrid, fearsome sort of
buzzing and humming, and snarling and growling; and lo! Tutor Ink had
taken the shape of an enormous frightful-looking fly. And the horrible
part of the thing was, that he had a man's face at the same time, and
even some of his clothes on still. He began to fly upwards, slowly and
with difficulty, evidently with the intention of following the Stranger
Child. Felix and Christlieb, overpowered with terror, ran away out of
the wood as quickly as they could, and did not so much as dare to look
up to the sky till they had got some distance off. When they did so,
they could just perceive a shining speck in the sky, glittering amongst
the clouds like a star, and apparently coming nearer, and downwards.
"That's the Stranger Child," Christlieb cried. The star grew bigger and
bigger, and as it did, they could hear a braying of trumpets; and
presently they saw that the star was a splendid bird, with wondrous
shining plumage, coming soaring down to the wood, flapping its mighty
wings, and singing loud and clear. "Ha!" cried Felix, "this is the
pheasant prince. He will bite Master Tutor Ink to death. The Stranger
Child is saved and so are we! Come, Christlieb; let us get home as fast
as we can, and tell father all about it."
HOW THE BARON TURNED TUTOR INK OUT OF DOORS.
The baron and his spouse were both sitting before the door of their
simple dwelling, looking at the evening-red, which was beginning to
flame up from behind the blue mountains in golden streamers. They had
their supper laid out on a little table: it consisted of a noble jug of
splendid milk, and a plate of bread-and-butter.
"I don't know," the baron began, "where Tutor Ink can be staying out so
long with the children. At first there was no getting him to go out at
all to the wood, and now there's no getting him back from it. He's
really a very extraordinary fellow, this Tutor Ink, taking him all in
all. I sometimes almost wish he had never entered our doors. To begin
with, his pricking the children with that needle was a thing that I
cannot say I liked; and I don't think his knowledge of the sciences
amounts to very much, either. He plappers out a lot of stuff that
nobody run make head or tail of, and can tell you what kind of
spatterdashes the Grand Mogul puts on; but when he goes outside, he
can't tell a lime-tree from a chestnut; and his behaviour has always
struck me as being most remarkable."
"I feel just as you do, dearest husband," said Frau von Brakel; "and,
glad as I was that your great cousin should interest himself about the
children, I feel quite sure, now, that he might have done it in other
and better ways than by saddling us with this Tutor Ink. As regards his
knowledge of the sciences, I don't pretend to give an opinion; but I
know that the little black creature, with his little weeny legs, is
more and more disagreeable to me every day. He has such a nasty way of
gobbling things. He can't see a drop of beer at the bottom of a glass,
or the fag-end of a jug of milk, but he must gulp them down his throat;
and if he finds the sugar-box open, he's at it in a moment, snuffing at
the sugar, and dipping his fingers in it, till one has to clap to the
lid in his face; and then away he darts, humming and buzzing in a way
that's most disgusting and abominable."
The baron was going to carry this conversation further, when Felix and
Christlieb came running home through amongst the birches.
"Hurrah! hurrah!" Felix kept shouting, "the pheasant prince has bitten
Master Tutor Ink to death!"
"Oh, mamma dear," cried Christlieb, "Master Tutor Ink is not a Tutor
Ink at all! What he really is, is Pepser, king of the Gnomes; a great,
monstrous fly, but a fly with a wig on, and shoes and stockings!"
The parents gazed at the children in utter amazement, as they went on
excitedly telling them all about the Stranger Child, whose mother was a
great fairy queen; and of the Gnome King Pepser, and his combat with
the pheasant prince.
"Who on earth has been cramming all this nonsense into your heads?" the
baron asked over and over again. "Have you been dreaming? or what in
the name of goodness has happened to you?" However, the children
declared, and stuck to it, that everything had happened just as they
told it, and that the horrible Pepser, who had given himself out as
being Master Ink, the tutor, must be lying killed in the wood.
Frau von Brakel struck her hands over her head and cried, in much
sorrow, "Oh, children, children, I don't know what on earth is to
become of you, when fearful things of this sort come into your heads,
and you won't let yourselves be persuaded to the contrary!"
But the baron grew very grave and thoughtful. "Felix," he said, "you
are really a very sensible boy now; and I must admit that Tutor Ink has
always, from the very first, struck me as being a very strange,
mysterious creature. Indeed, it often seemed to me that there was
something very queer about him, which I could by no means get to the
bottom of; he is not like the common run of tutors at all. Your mother
and I are by no means satisfied with him, particularly your mother. He
has such a terribly liquorish tooth of his own, there's no keeping him
away from sweet things! And then he hums and buzzes in such a
distressing way! Altogether, I can assure you he wouldn't have been
here much longer. No! But now, my dear boy, just bethink yourself
calmly; even if there were, really, any such nasty things as gnomes
existing in the world, could (I ask you now to think it over calmly and
rationally), _could_, I say, a tutor really be a fly?"
Felix looked his father steadily in the face with his clear blue eyes,
as he repeated this question. "Well," said Felix, "I never thought very
much about that; in fact, I should not have believed it myself, if the
Stranger Child had not said so, and if I had not seen, with my own
eyes, that he is a horrible, nasty fly, and only pretends to be Tutor
Ink. And then," continued Felix, while the baron shook his head in
silence, like one who does not know quite what to say, or think, "see
what mother says about his fondness for sweet things. Isn't that just
like a fly? Flies are always grabbing at sweet things. And then, his
hummings and buzzings!"
"Silence!" cried the baron. "Whatever Tutor Ink may really be, one
thing is certain; that the pheasant prince has not bitten him to death,
for here he comes out of the wood!"
At this the children uttered loud screams, and fled into the house.
For, in truth, Tutor Ink was approaching out of the wood, up the path
among the birches. But he was all wild-looking and bewildered, with
sparkling eyes, and his wig all touzled. He was buzzing and humming,
and making great springs, high off the ground, first to one side, then
to another, banging his head against the birches till you heard them
resound. When he got to the house, he dashed at the milk-jug and popped
his face into it, so that the milk ran over the sides; and he gulped it
down, making a horrible noise of swallowing.
"For the love of heaven, Master Ink," cried Fran von Brakel, "what are
you about?"
"Are you out of your senses?" said the baron. "Is the foul fiend after
you?"
But, regardless of those interrogations, Master Ink, taking his
mouth from the milk-jug, threw himself down bodily on the dish of
bread-and-butter; fluttered over it with his coat-tails, and, somehow,
made such play over it with his weazened legs, that he smoothed it down
all over. Then, with a louder buzzing, he made for the house-door; but
he couldn't manage to get into the house, but staggered hither and
thither as if he was drunk, banging against the windows till they
rattled and rang.
"I'll tell you what it is, my good sir!" cried the baron. "This is
pretty behaviour! Look out, or you'll come to grief before you know
where you are!" And he tried to seize Master Ink by the coat-tails; but
Master Ink always managed to elude him, deftly. Here Felix came running
out, with his father's big fly-flapper in his hand; and he gave it to
the baron, crying, "Here you are, father; knock the horrible Pepser to
death!"
The baron took the fly-flapper, and then they all set to work at Master
Ink. Felix, Christlieb, and their mother took table-napkins, and made
sweeps with them in the air, driving the tutor backwards and forwards,
here and there; whilst the baron kept letting drive at him with the
fly-flapper, which did not hit him, unfortunately, because he took good
care never to stay a moment in the same place. And wilder and wilder
grew the chase. "Summ-summ----simm-simm----trr-trr," went the tutor,
storming hither and thither; "huss-huss," went the table-napkins,
pursuing the foe; "klip-klap" fell the baron's strokes with the
flapper, thick as hail. At last the baron managed to hit the tutor's
coat-tails; he fell down with a groan. But just as the baron was going
to get a second stroke at him, he bounced up into the air, with renewed
and redoubled strength, stormed, humming and buzzing, away through the
birches, and was seen no more.
"A good job," said the baron, "that we're well rid of horrible Tutor
Ink: never shall he cross my threshold again."
"No; that he shall not!" said Frau von Brakel. "Tutors with such
objectionable manners can do nothing but mischief, when just the
contrary ought to be the case. Brags about his 'sciences,' and then
goes flop into the milk-jug. A nice sort of a tutor, upon my word!"
But the children laughed and shouted, crying, "Hip-hip, hurrah! It's
all right now! Father has hit Tutor Ink a good one on the nose, and
we've got rid of him for good and all."
THAT WHICH CAME TO PASS IN THE WOOD, AFTER TUTOR
INK WAS GOT RID OF.
Felix and Christlieb breathed freely again now. A great weight was
taken off their hearts. Above all things, there was the delicious
thought that, now that the horrid Pepser was gone, the Stranger Child
would be sure to come back, and play with them as of yore. They hurried
into the wood, full of sweet hope and happy expectancy. But everything
there was silent and desolate. Not a merry note of finch or siskin was
to be heard; and in place of the gladsome rustling of the bushes and
the joyous voice of the brook, sighs of sorrow seemed to be passing
through the air, and the sun cast only faint and feeble glimpses
through the clouded sky. Presently great dark clouds began to pile
themselves up; thunder muttered in the distance; a storm-wind howled,
and the tall fir-trees creaked and groaned. Christlieb clung to Felix,
in alarm. But he said, "What's come to you? What are you afraid of?
There's going to be a thunderstorm. We must get home as fast as we can;
that's all!"
So they set off to do so; but somehow--they didn't know why--instead of
getting out of the wood, they seemed to keep getting farther and
farther into it. The darkness deepened: great rain-drops fell, faster
and faster, thicker and thicker, and flashes of lightning darted hither
and thither, hissing as they passed. The children came to a stand by
the edge of an impassable thicket. "Let's duck down here for a little,
Christlieb," said Felix; "the storm won't last long." Christlieb was
crying from fear, but she did as Felix asked her. Scarcely had they sat
down among the thick bushes, however, when nasty, snarling voices began
to speak, behind them, saying:
"Stupid things! Senseless creatures! You despised us; didn't know how
to treat us--what to do with us. So now you can do your best without
any playthings, senseless creatures that you are!" Felix looked round,
and felt very eery and uncomfortable when he saw the sportsman and the
harper rise up out of the thicket into which he had thrown them,
staring at him with dead eyes and struggling and fighting about them
with their hands. Moreover, the harper twanged on his strings so that
they gave out a horrible, nasty, eery clinkering and rattling; and the
sportsman went so far as to take a deliberate aim at Felix with his
gun; and both of them croaked out, "Wait a little, you boy and you
girl. We are obedient pupils of Master Tutor Ink: he'll be here
directly, and then we'll pay you out nicely for despising us."
Terrified--regardless of the rain, which was now streaming in torrents,
and of the rattling peals of thunder, and the gale which was roaring
through the firs--the children ran away from thence, and came to the
brink of the pond which bordered the wood. But as soon as they got
there, lo and behold! Christlieb's big doll, which Felix had thrown
into the water, rose out of the sedges, and squeaked out, in a horrible
voice, "Wait a little, you boy and you girl! Stupid things! Senseless
creatures! You despised me; didn't know what to do with me--how to
treat me. So now you can get on without playthings the best way you
can. I am an obedient pupil of Master Tutor Ink's: he'll be here
directly, and then you'll be nicely paid out for despising me." And
then the nasty thing sent great splashes of water flying at Felix and
Christlieb, though they were wet through already with the rain.
Felix could not endure this terrible process of haunting. Poor
Christlieb was half dead, so they ran off again, as hard as they could;
but soon, in the heart of the wood, they sank down, exhausted with
weariness and terror. Then they heard a humming and a buzzing behind
them. "Oh, heavens!" cried Felix; "here comes Tutor Ink, now!" At that
moment his consciousness left him, and so did Christlieb's too.
When they came back to their senses, they found themselves lying on a
bed of soft moss. The storm was over, the sun was shining bright and
kindly, and the raindrops were hanging on the glittering bushes and
trees like sparkling jewels. The children were much surprised to find
that their clothes were quite dry, and that they felt no trace of
either cold or wet. "Ah!" cried Felix, stretching his arms to the sky;
"the Stranger Child must have protected us." And then they both called
out so loud that the wood re-echoed: "Ah, thou darling child, do but
come to us again! We do so long for you; we cannot live without you!"
And it seemed, too, as though a bright beam of light came darting
through the trees, making the flowers lift up their heads as it touched
them. But though the children called upon their playfellow yet more
movingly, nothing made itself seen. They crept home in silence and
sadness. But their parents were very glad to see them, having been
exceedingly anxious about them during the storm. The baron said, "It is
a good thing that you are home again; for I confess I was afraid that
Tutor Ink was still hanging about somewhere in the wood, and on your
track."
Felix related all that had happened in the wood. "That is all stupid
nonsense," their mother said. "If you are to go dreaming all that sort
of stuff in the wood, you shan't be allowed to go there any more.
You'll have to stop at home." And indeed--although, when they begged
that they might be allowed to go back there, their mother yielded--it
so came about that they didn't care very much about doing it. Alas! the
Stranger Child was never there; and whenever they got far into the
wood, or reached the bank of the pond, they were jeered at by the
harper, the sportsman, and the doll, who cried to them, "Stupid things!
Senseless creatures! You must do without playthings. You didn't know
how to treat us clever, cultivated people--stupid things, senseless
creatures that you are!"
This being unendurable, the children preferred staying at home.
CONCLUSION.
"I don't know," said the baron to his lady one day, "what it is that
has been the matter with me for the last few days. I feel so queer and
so odd, that I could almost fancy Tutor Ink has put some spell upon me.
Ever since the moment when I hit him that crack with the fly-flapper,
all my limbs have felt like bits of lead."
And the baron did really grow weaker and paler, day by day. He gave up
walking about his grounds; he no longer went bustling about the house,
cheerily ordering matters as he used to do; he sat, hour after hour, in
deep meditation, and would get Felix and Christlieb to repeat to him,
over and over again, all about the Stranger Child; and when they spoke
eagerly of all the marvels connected with the Stranger Child, and of
the beautiful brilliant kingdom which was its home, he would give a
melancholy smile, and the tears would come to his eyes.
But Felix and Christlieb could not reconcile themselves to the
circumstance that the Stranger Child went on keeping aloof from them,
leaving them exposed to the nasty behaviour of those troublesome
puppets in the thicket and the duck pond, on account of which they did
not like now to frequent the wood at all.
But one morning, when it was fine and beautiful, the baron said, "Come
along, children; we'll go to the wood together, you and I. Master Ink's
nasty pupils shan't do you any harm." So he took them by the hands, and
they all three went together to the wood, which that day was fuller
than ever of bright sunshine, perfume, and song. When they had laid
themselves down amongst the tender grass, and the sweet-scented
flowers, the baron began as follows:--
"You dear children, I have for some time had a great longing to tell
you a thing, and I cannot delay doing so any longer. It is, that--once
on a time--I knew the beautiful Stranger Child that used to show you
such lovely things in the wood, just as well as you did yourselves.
When I was about your age, that child used to come to me too, and play
with me in the most wonderful way. How it was that it came to leave me,
I cannot quite remember; and I don't understand how I had so completely
forgotten all about it till you spoke to me about what had happened to
you, and then I didn't believe you, though I often had a sort of dim
consciousness that what you told me was the truth. But within the last
few days, I have been remembering and thinking about the delightful
days of my own boyhood, in a way that I have not been able to do for
many a long year. And then that beautiful magic-child came back to my
memory, bright and glorious, as you saw it yourselves; and the same
longing which filled your breasts came to mine too. But it is breaking
my heart! I feel, and I know quite well, that this is the last time
that I shall ever sit beneath these bonnie trees and bushes. I am going
to leave you very soon, and when I am dead and gone, you must cling
fast to that beautiful child."
Felix and Christlieb were beside themselves with grief and sorrow. They
wept and lamented, crying, "No, no, father; you are not going to die!
You have many a long year to be with us still, and to play with the
Stranger Child along with us."
But the next day, the baron lay sick in his bed. A tall, meagre man
came and felt his pulse, and said, "You'll soon be better!" But he was
not soon better. On the third day, the Baron von Brakel was no more.
Ah, how Frau von Brakel mourned! How the children wrung their hands and
cried, "Oh, father! our dear, dear father!"
Soon, when four peasants of Brakelheim had borne their master to his
grave, there came to the house some horrible fellows, almost like Tutor
Ink in appearance, and they told Frau von Brakel that they must take
possession of all the piece of land, and the house, and everything in
it, because the deceased baron owed all that, and more besides, to his
cousin, who could wait no longer for his money. So that Frau von Brakel
was a beggar, and had to go away from the pretty little village of
Brakelheim, where she had spent so many happy years, and go to live
with a relation not very far away. She and the children had to pack up
whatever little bits of clothes and effects they had left, and with
many tears take their leave, and set forth upon their way. As they
crossed the bridge, and heard the loud voice of the forest stream, Frau
von Brakel fell down in a swoon, and Felix and Christlieb sank on their
knees beside her, and cried, with many sobs and tears, "Oh, unfortunate
creatures that we are! Will no one take any pity on us?"
At that moment the distant rushing of the forest stream seemed
to turn into beautiful music. The thickets gave forth mysterious
sighs, and presently all the forest streamed with wonderful, sparkling
fires. And lo! the Stranger Child appeared, coming forth out of the
sweet-smelling leafage, surrounded by such a brilliant light and
radiance, that Felix and Christlieb had to shut their eyes at the
brightness of it. Then they felt themselves gently touched, and the
Stranger Child's beautiful voice said, "Oh, do not mourn so, dear
playmates of mine! Do I not love you as much as ever? Can I ever leave
you? No, no! Although you do not see me with your bodily eyes, I am
always with you and about you, helping you with all my power to be
always happy and fortunate. Only keep me in your hearts, as you have
done hitherto, and neither the wicked Pepser, nor any other adversary,
will have power to harm you. Only go on loving me truly and
faithfully."
"Oh, that we shall--that we shall!" the children cried. "We love you
with all our souls!"
When they were able to open their eyes again, the Stranger Child had
vanished; but all their pain was gone from them, and they felt that a
heavenly joy and gladness had arisen within their hearts. Frau von
Brakel recovered slowly from her swoon, and said, "Children, I saw you
in a dream. You seemed to be standing in a blaze of gleaming gold, and
the sight has strengthened and refreshed me in a wonderful way."
Delight beamed in the children's eyes, and shone in their cheeks. They
related how the Stranger Child had come to them and comforted them. And
their mother said, "I do not know how it is that I feel compelled to
believe in this story of yours to-day, nor how my believing in it seems
to have taken away all my sorrow and anxiety. Let us go on our way with
confidence."
They were kindly received and welcomed by their relatives, and all that
the Stranger Child promised came to pass. Whatever Felix and Christlieb
undertook was sure to prosper, and they and their mother became quite
happy. And, as their lives went on, they still, in dreams, played with
the Stranger Child, which, never ceased to bring to them the loveliest
wonders from its fairy home.
* * * * *
"No doubt," said Ottmar, when Lothair had finished, "your 'Stranger
Child' is more purely a story for children than your 'Nutcracker.'
Still, pardon me for saying so, you haven't been able to refrain from
introducing a certain number of your confounded flourishes, such as no
child could see to the bottom of."
"I," said Sylvester, "have long been acquainted with the little
Devilkin that sits on Lothair's shoulder like a tame squirrel. He can't
shut his ears to the strange things which the creature whispers to
him."
"At all events," said Cyprian, "he ought to call those stories, 'Tales
for Children, great and small,' instead of 'Tales for Children.'"
"Or," added Vincent, "'Tales for Children, and those who are not
children.' In this way the entire world would be able to take them up
and form their own opinion of them."
They all laughed, and Lothair, in comic anger, declared that in his
next he would give full rein to his inspiration, regardless of
consequences.
Midnight having struck, the friends said good-night, and separated in
the happiest of moods.
* * * * *
[Footnote 1: The time of Napoleon's Prussian operations is here meant.
Hoffmann passed through this in early life.--TRANS.]
[Footnote 2: This untranslateable expression means, "Sentence of death
is pronounced."--TRANSLATOR.]
[Footnote 3:
"Darling! remember well,
When I have passed away,
How this unchanging soul
Loves Thee for aye!
Though my poor ashes rest
Deep in the silent grave,
Ev'n in the urn of Death
Thee I adore!"]
[Footnote 4: I have omitted the words in question, as not now
possessing much interest.--TRANS.]
[Footnote 5: A celebrated master singer; as were also others,
subsequently mentioned as composers of "tones" or "manners" of
song.--TRANS.]
END OF VOLUME FIRST.
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