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Ernst Theordor Wilhelm Hoffmann
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Title: The Serapion Brethren.
Vol. II
Author: Ernst Theordor Wilhelm Hoffmann
Translator: Alex. Ewing
Release Date: March 16, 2010 [EBook #31668]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SERAPION BRETHREN. ***
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Transcriber's notes:
Source of scans: Google Books:
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Diacritical marks:
1.found in the word D[=a]-l[ve]s
[=a] = a macron; [=A] = A macron.
[ve] = e caron; [vE] = E caron.
2. [oe] = diphthong oe.
THE SERAPION BRETHREN.
VOLUME II.
THE SERAPION BRETHREN.
BY
ERNST THEODOR WILHELM HOFFMANN
Translated from the German
BY
LIEUT.-COLONEL ALEX. EWING,
A.P.D.,
TRANSLATOR OF J. P. RICHTER'S "FLOWER, FRUIT, AND THORN PIECES,"
ETC.
VOLUME II.
LONDON:
GEORGE BELL & SONS, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN,
AND NEW YORK.
1892.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
CONTENTS.
SECTION V.
PAGE
THE LIFE OF A WELL-KNOWN CHARACTER
ALBERTINE'S WOOERS
THE UNCANNY GUEST
SECTION VI.
MADEMOISELLE SCUDERI
GAMBLERS' FORTUNE
SECTION VII.
SIGNOR FORMICA
PHENOMENA
SECTION VIII.
THE MUTUAL INTERDEPENDENCE OF THINGS
THE KING'S BETHROTHED
THE SERAPION BRETHREN.
SECTION V.
The ever-fluctuating vicissitudes of human life had once more scattered
our little group of friends asunder. Sylvester had gone back to his
country home; Ottmar had travelled away on business, and so had
Cyprian; Vincent was still in the town, but (after his accustomed
fashion) he had disappeared in the turmoil, and was nowhere to be seen;
Lothair was nursing Theodore, who had been laid on a bed of sickness by
a malady long struggled against, which was destined to keep him there
for a considerable time.
Indeed, several months had gone by, when Ottmar (whose sudden and
unlooked-for departure had been the chief cause of the breaking up of
the "Club") came back, to find, in place of the full-fledged "Serapion
Brotherhood," one friend, barely convalescent, and bearing the traces
of a severe illness in his pale face, abandoned by the Brethren, with
the exception of one, who was tasking him severely by constant
outbreaks of a grim and capricious "humour."
For Lothair was once more finding himself in one of those strange and
peculiar moods of mind in which all life seemed to him to have become
weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, by reason of the everlasting
mockery ("chaff" might be the modern expression of this idea) of the
inimical daemonic power which, like a pedantic tutor, ignores and
contemns the _nature_ of men; giving man (as a tutor of the sort would
do) bitter drugs and nauseous medicines, instead of sweet and delicious
macaroons, to the end that his said pupil, man, may take a distaste at
his own nature, enjoy it no more, and thus keep his digestion in good
order.
"What an unfortunate idea it was," Lothair cried out, in the gloomiest
ill-humour, when Ottmar came in and found him sitting with
Theodore--"what an unfortunate idea it was of ours to insist on binding
ourselves together again so closely, jumping over all the clefts which
time had split between us! It is Cyprian whom we have to thank for
laying the foundation-stone of Saint Serapion, on which we built an
edifice which seemed destined to last a lifetime, and tumbled down into
ruin in a few moons. One ought not to hang one's heart on to anything,
or give one's mind over to the impressions of excitements from without;
and I was a fool to do so, for I must confess to you that the way in
which we came together on those Serapion evenings took such a hold on
my whole being that, when the brethren so suddenly dispersed themselves
over the world, my life felt to me as weary, stale, flat and
unprofitable as the melancholy Prince Hamlet's did to him."
"Forasmuch as no spirit has arisen from the grave, revisiting the
glimpses of the moon, to incite you to revenge," said Ottmar, with a
laugh, "and as you are not called upon to send your sweetheart
to a nunnery, or to thrust a poisoned rapier into the heart of a
murderer-king, I think you ought not to give way to Prince Hamlet's
melancholy, and should consider that it would be the grossest
selfishness to renounce every league of alliance into which
congenially-minded people enter because the storms of life possess the
power of interfering with it. Human beings ought not to draw in their
antennas at every ungentle touch, like supersensitive insects. Is the
remembrance of hours passed in gladsome kindly intercourse nothing to
you? All through my journeyings I have thought of you continually. On
the evenings of the meetings of the Serapion Club (which, of course, I
supposed to be still in full swing) I always took my place amongst you,
in spirit; assimilated all the delightful and entertaining things going
on amongst you (entertaining you, at the same time, with whatever the
spirit moved me to contribute to you). But it is absurd to continue in
this vein. Is there, in Lothair's mind, really the slightest trace of
that which his momentary 'out-of-tuneness' has made him say? Does he
not himself admit that the cause of his being out of tune is merely the
fact of our having been dispersed?"
"Theodore's illness," said Lothair, "which nearly sent him to his
grave, was not a matter, either, calculated to put me into a happy
state of mind."
"No," said Ottmar, "but Theodore is well again; and as to the Serapion
Club, I cannot see why it should not be considered to be in full
working order, now that three of the Brethren are met together."
"Ottmar is perfectly right," said Theodore; "it is a matter of
indisputable necessity that we should have a meeting, in true
Serapiontic fashion, as early as possible. The germ which we form will
sprout into a tree full of fresh life and vigour, bearing flowers and
fruit--I mean that that bird of passage, Cyprian, will come back:
Sylvester will soon be unhappy, there where he is, away; and when the
nightingales cease singing, he will long for music of another kind; and
Vincent will emerge from the billows again, no doubt, and chirp his
little song."
"Have it your own way," said Lothair, rather more gently than before;
"only don't expect _me_ to have anything to do with it. However, I
promise that I will be present when you assemble Serapiontically; and,
as Theodore ought to be in the open air as much as possible, I suggest
that we hold our meeting out of doors."
So they fixed upon the last day of May--which was only a few days
off--for the time; and on a pretty public-garden in the neighbourhood,
not too much frequented, for the place, of their next Serapiontic
meeting.
A thunderstorm, passing quickly over, and merely sprinkling the trees
and bushes with a few drops of Heaven's balsam, had relieved the sultry
oppressiveness of the day. The beautiful garden was lying all still, in
the most exquisite brightness. The delicious perfume of leaves and
flowers streamed through it, while the birds, twittering and trilling
in happiness, went rustling amongst the branches, and bathed themselves
in the bedewed leafage.
"How refreshed I feel, through and through!" Theodore cried, when the
friends had sate themselves down in the shade of some thickly-foliaged
lime-trees; "every trace of illness, down to the most infinitesimal,
has left me. I feel as if a redoubled life had dawned on me, in my
active consciousness of reciprocity of action between me and the
external. A man must have been as ill as I have been to be capable of
this sensation, which, strengthening mind and body, must surely be (as
I feel it to be) the true life-elixir which the Eternal Power, the
ruling World-spirit, administers to us, directly and without
intermediation. The vivifying breath of Nature is breathing out of my
own breast. I seem to be floating in that glorious blue Heaven which is
vaulted over us, with every burden lifted away from me!"
"This," said Ottmar, "shows that you are quite well again, beloved
friend; and all glory to the Eternal Power which fitted you out with an
organisation strong enough to survive an illness like that which you
have gone through. It is a marvel that you recovered at all, and still
a greater that you recovered so quickly."
"For my part," said Lothair, "I am not surprised that he got well so
soon, because I never had a moment's doubt that he would. You may
believe me, Ottmar, when I tell you that, wretched as the state in
which his physical condition appeared to be, he was never really ill,
mentally; and so long as the spirit keeps sound--well! it was really
enough to vex one to death that Theodore, ill as he was, was always in
better spirits than I was, although I was a perfectly well and sound
man; and that, so soon as his bodily sufferings gave him an interval of
rest, he delighted in the wildest fun and jests. At the same time, he
has the rare power of remembering his feverish illusions. The doctor
had forbidden him to talk; but when _I_ wished to tell him this, that
and the other in quiet moments, he would motion me to be silent and not
disturb his thoughts, which were busy over some important composition,
or other matter of the kind."
"Yes," said Theodore, laughing, "I can assure you that Lothair's
communications were of a very peculiar kidney at that time. Directly
after the dispersion of the Serapion Brethren he became possessed by a
foul fiend of evil humours. This you probably have gathered; but you
cannot, by any possibility, divine the extraordinary ideas which he got
into his head at this period of gloom and dejection. One day he came
to my bedside (for I had taken to my bed by that time) stating
that the old Chronicle Books were the grandest and richest mines and
treasure-houses of tales, legends, novels and dramas. Cyprian said the
same long ago, and it is true. Next day I noticed, although my malady
was besetting me sorely, that Lothair was sitting immersed in an old
folio. Moreover, he went every day to the public library and got
together all the old Chronicles he could lay his hands upon. _That_ was
all very well; but, besides, he got his head filled with the strange
old legends which are contained in those venerable books; and when, in
my hours of comparative quiet, he bestirred himself to talk to me on
'entertaining' subjects, what I heard of was war and pestilence,
monstrous abortions, hurricanes, comets, fires and floods, witches,
auto-da-fé's, enchantments, miracles, and, above all other subjects,
his talk was of the manifold works and devices of the Devil--who, as we
know, plays such an important part in all those old stories that one
can hardly imagine what has become of him _now_, when he seems to keep
so quietly in the background, unless he may perhaps have put on some
new dress which renders him unrecognizable. Now tell me, Ottmar, don't
you think such subjects of conversation well suited for a man in my
then state of health?"
"Don't condemn me unheard," cried Lothair. "It is true, and I will
maintain it fearlessly, that, for writers of tales, there is an immense
amount of splendid material in those ancient Chronicles. But you know
that _I_ have never taken much interest in them, and least of all in
their _diablerie_. However, the evening before Cyprian went away I had
a great argument with him as to his having far too much to do with the
Devil and his family; and I told him candidly that my present opinion
of his tale, 'The Singers' Contest,' is that it is a thoroughly faulty
and bungling piece of work, although when he read it to us I approved
of it, for many specious reasons. Upon this he attacked me in the
character of a real _advocatum diaboli_, and told me such a quantity of
things, out of old Chronicles and from other sources, that my head
fairly reeled. And then, when Theodore fell ill, I was seized upon and
overmastered by real, bitter gloom and misery. Somehow, I scarce know
how or why, Cyprian's 'Singers' Contest' came back to my mind again.
Nay, the Devil himself appeared to me in person one night when I
couldn't sleep; and although I was a good deal frightened by the evil
fellow, still I could not help respecting him, and paying him my duty
as an ever helpful aide-de-camp of tale-writers in lack of help; and,
by way of spiting you all, I determined to set to work and surpass even
Cyprian himself in the line of the fearsome and the terrible."
"_You_, Lothair, undertake the fearful and terrible!" said Ottmar,
laughing--"you, whose bright and fanciful genius would seem expressly
adapted to wave the wand of comedy!"
"Even so," said Lothair; "such was my idea. And as a first step towards
carrying it out, I set to work to rummage in those old Chronicles which
Cyprian had told me were the very treasure-houses of the diabolical;
but I admit that it all turned out quite differently from what I had
expected."
"I can fully confirm that," said Theodore. "I can assure you it is
astonishing, and most delicious, the way in which the Devil and the
gruesomest witch-trials adapt themselves to the mental bent and style
of the author of 'Nutcracker and the King of Mice.' Just let me tell
you, dear Ottmar, how I chanced to lay my hands upon an experimental
essay on this subject of our doughty Lothair's. He had just left me one
day when I was getting to be strong enough to creep about the room a
little, and I found, upon the table where he had been writing, the
truly remarkable book entitled 'Haftitii Michrochronicon Berlinense,'
open at the page where, _inter alia_, occurs what follows:--
"'Ye Divell, in this year of Grace, appeared bodily in ye streets of
Berlin, and attended funerals, conducting himself thereat
sorrowfullie,' &c., &c., &c.
"You will see, my dear Ottmar, that this entertaining piece of
intelligence was of a nature to delight me immensely; but some pages in
Lothair's handwriting delighted me still more. In those he had welded
up the accounts of this curious conduct of the Devil with a horrible
case of misbirth, and a gruesome trial for witchcraft, into an
_ensemble_ of the most delightful and entertaining description. I have
got those pages here; I brought them in my pocket to amuse you with
them."
He took them out of his pocket and handed them to Ottmar.
"What!" cried Lothair, "the affair which I styled 'Some Account of the
Life of a Well-known Character,' which I thought was torn up and
destroyed long ago--the abortive product of a fit of capricious fancy;
can it be that you have captured _that_ from me and kept it, to bring
me into discredit with persons of taste and culture? Here with the
wretched piece of scribbling, that I may tear it up and scatter it to
the winds of heaven."
"No, no," cried Theodore; "you must read it to Ottmar, as a penance for
what you inflicted on me in my illness with your horrible weird
Chronicle matter."
"Well," said Lothair, "I suppose I can't refuse, though I shall cut a
strange figure before this very grave and carefully-behaved gentleman.
However, here goes." So Lothair took the papers, and read as follows:--
THE LIFE OF A WELL-KNOWN CHARACTER.
In the year one thousand five hundred and fifty-one there was to be
seen in the streets of Berlin, particularly in the evening twilight, a
gentleman of fine and distinguished appearance. He wore a rich and
beautiful doublet, trimmed with sable, white galligaskins, and slashed
shoes; on his head was a satin barret cap with a red feather. His
manners were charming, and highly polished. He bowed politely to
everybody, particularly to ladies, both married and single; and to
_them_ he was wont to address civil and complimentary speeches. He
would say: "Donna! if you have any wish or desire in the depths of your
heart, pray command your most humble servant, who will devote his
humble powers to the utmost to be entirely at your disposal and
service." This was what he said to married ladies of position. To the
unmarried he said: "Heaven grant you a nice husband, worthy of your
loveliness and virtues." To the men he behaved just as charmingly, and
it was no wonder that everybody was fond of this stranger, and came to
his assistance when he would stand hesitating, in doubt and difficulty,
at some crossing, apparently not knowing how to get over it; for though
a well-grown and handsomely-proportioned person in most respects, he
had one lame foot, and was obliged to go about with a crutch. But as
soon as anybody gave him a hand to help him at a crossing, he would
instantly jump up with him some six ells or so into the air, and not
come to the ground again within a distance of some twelve paces on the
other side of the crossing. This rather astonished people, it need not
be said, and one or two sprained their legs slightly in the process.
But the stranger excused himself by saying that, before his leg was
lame, he had been principal dancer at the Court of the King of Hungary;
so that, when he felt himself called upon to take a jump, the old habit
came back upon him, and, willy-nilly, he could not help springing up
into the air as he used to do in the exercise of his profession. The
people were satisfied with this explanation, and even took much delight
in seeing some privy councillor, clergyman, or other person of position
and respectability, taking a great jump of this sort hand-in-hand with
the stranger.
But, merry and cheerful as he seemed to be, his behaviour changed at
times in a most extraordinary manner; for he would often go about the
streets at night and knock at people's doors; and when they opened to
him, he would be standing there in white grave clothes, raising a
terrible crying and howling, at which they were fearfully frightened;
but he would apologize the following day, saying that he was compelled
to do this to remind the citizens and himself of the perishableness of
the body, and the imperishableness of the soul, to which their minds
ought always to be carefully directed. He would weep a little as he
said this, which touched the folks very much. He went to all the
funerals, following the coffin with reverent step, and conducting
himself like one overwhelmed with sorrow, so that he could not join in
the hymns for sobbing and lamenting. But, overcome with grief as he was
on those occasions, he was just as delighted and happy at marriages,
which in those days were celebrated in a very splendid style at the
town-hall. There he would sing all sorts of songs in a loud and
delightful voice, and dance for hours on end with the bride and the
young ladies (on his sound leg, adroitly drawing the lame one out of
the way), behaving and evincing himself on those occasions as a man of
the most delightful manners and bearing. But the best of it was that he
always gave the marrying couples delightful presents, so that of course
he was always a most welcome guest. He gave them gold chains,
bracelets, and other valuable things; so that the goodness, the
liberality, and the superior morality of this stranger became bruited
abroad throughout the city of Berlin, and even reached the ears of the
Elector himself. The Elector thought that a person of this sort would
be a great ornament at his own Court, and caused him to be sounded as
to his willingness to accept an appointment there. The stranger,
however, wrote back an answer (in vermilion letters, on a piece of
parchment a yard and a half in length, and the same in breadth) to the
effect that he was most submissively grateful for the honour offered to
him, but implored his Serene Highness to permit him to remain in the
enjoyment of the citizenesque life which was so wholly conformed to all
his sentiments, in peace; adding that he had selected Berlin, in
preference to many other cities, as his residence, because he had
nowhere else met with such charming people, persons of such
truthfulness and uprightness, of so much "feeling," of such a sense for
fine and delightful "manners" so exquisitely after his own heart in
every respect. The Elector, and his whole Court along with him, much
admired and wondered at the beautiful style in which this reply of the
stranger was conceived, and the matter was allowed to rest there.
It happened that just then the lady of Councillor Walter Lütkens was,
for the first time, "as ladies wish to be who love their lords"; and
the old _accoucheuse_, Mistress Barbara Roloffin, predicted that this
fine, grand lady, overflowing with health and strength, would
undoubtedly bring into the world a grand and vigorous son, so that Herr
Walter Lütkens was all hope and gladness. Our "stranger," who had been
a guest at Lütkens's wedding, was in the habit of calling at his house
now and then; and it chanced that he made one of those calls of his on
an evening when Barbara Roloffin was there.
As soon as old Barbara set eyes on the stranger she gave a marvellous
loud ejaculation of delight, and it appeared as though all the deep
wrinkles of her face smoothed themselves out in an instant. Her pale
lips and cheeks grew red, and the youth and beauty to which she had
long said "good-bye" came back to her again. She cried out, "Ah, ah,
Herr Junker! Is this you that I see here really and truly? Is this you,
yourself? Oh, I welcome you! I am so delighted to see you!" and she was
nearly falling down at his feet.
But he answered this demonstration in words of anger, whilst his eyes
flashed fire. Nobody could understand what it was that he said to her.
But the old woman shrunk into a corner, as pale and wrinkled as she had
been at first, and whimpering faintly and unintelligibly.
"My dear Mr. Lütkens," the stranger said to the master of the house, "I
hope you will take great care lest something annoying may happen in
your house here. I really hope, with all my heart, that everything will
go well on this auspicious occasion. But this old creature, Barbara
Roloffin, is by no means so well up to her business as perhaps you
suppose. She is an old acquaintance of mine, and I am sorry to say that
she has on many occasions not paid proper attention to her patients."
Both Lütkens and his wife had been very anxious, and had felt most eery
and uncanny about this whole business, and full of suspicion as to old
Barbara Roloffin, particularly when they remembered the extraordinary
transfiguration which took place in her when she saw the stranger. They
had very great suspicions that she was in the practice of black and
unholy arts, so that they forbade her to cross the threshold of their
house any more, and they made arrangements with another _accoucheuse_.
On this, old Barbara was very angry, and said that Lütkens and his wife
would pay very dearly for what they had done to her.
Lütkens's hope and gladness were turned into bitter heart-sorrow and
deep grief, when his wife brought into the world a horrible changeling
in place of the beautiful boy predicted by Barbara Roloffin. It was a
creature all chestnut brown, with two horns on its head, great fat
eyes, no nose whatever, a big wide mouth with a white tongue sticking
out of it upside down, and no neck. Its head was down between its
shoulders; its body was wrinkled and swollen; its arms came out just
above its hips, and it had long, thin shanks.
Mr. Lütkens wept and lamented terribly. "Oh, just heavens!" he cried;
"what in the name of goodness is going to be the outcome of this? Can
this little one ever be expected to tread in his father's steps? Was
there ever such a thing known as a Member of Council with a couple of
horns on his head, and chestnut brown all over?"
The stranger consoled Lütkens as much as ever he could. He pointed out
to him that a good education does a great deal; that though, as
concerned form and appearance, the new-born thing was really to be
characterized as a most arrant schismatic, still he ventured to say
that it looked about it very understandingly with its fat eyes, and
that there was room for a deal of wisdom between the two horns on its
forehead. Also that though it might, perhaps, never be fit to be a
Member of Council, it was perfectly capable of becoming a distinguished
_savant_, inasmuch as excessive ugliness is often a characteristic of
_savants_, and even causes them to be highly respected and much looked
up to.
However, Lütkens could not but ascribe his misfortune in the depths of
his heart to old Barbara Roloffin, particularly when he learned that
she had been sitting at the door of the room during his wife's
_accouchement_; and Frau Lütkens had declared, with many tears, that
the old woman's face had been before her eyes all the time of it, and
that she had not been able to get rid of the sight of her.
Now Mr. Lütkens's suspicions were not, it is true, enough to base any
legal proceedings upon in the matter; but Heaven so ordered things that
in a very short time all the infamous deeds which old Barbara had
committed were brought into the clear light of day.
For it happened that shortly after those events there came on one day,
about twelve at noon, a terrible storm, and a most violent wind, and
the people in the streets saw Barbara Roloffin (who was on her way to
attend a lady in need of her professional services) borne, rushing away
on the wings of a blast, high up through the air, over the housetops
and the church steeples, and set down, none the worse for the trip, in
a meadow close to Berlin.
After this, of course, there could be no more doubt about the "black
art" of Barbara Roloffin. Lütkens lodged his plaint before the proper
tribunal, and the woman was taken into custody. She denied everything
obstinately, till she was put to the rack. Upon that, unable to endure
the agony, she confessed that she had been in league with the Devil,
and had practised magical arts for a very long time. She admitted that
she had bewitched poor Frau Lütkens, and foisted off the vile abortion
upon her; and that, over and above that, she had in company with two
other witches belonging to Blumber killed and boiled several children
of Christian parents, with the object of causing a famine in the land.
Accordingly she was sentenced to be burnt alive in the market-place. So
when the appointed day arrived old Barbara was conducted there in
presence of a great concourse of people, and made to ascend the
scaffold which was there erected. When ordered to take off a fur cloak
which she was wearing, she would by no means obey, insisting that they
should tie her to the stake just as she was. This was done. The pile of
wood was already alight, and burning at all four corners, when suddenly
the stranger appeared, seemingly grown to gigantic dimensions, and
glaring over the heads of the populace at Barbara Roloffin with eyes of
flame.
The clouds of black smoke were rolling on high, the crackling flames
were catching the woman's dress, she cried out, in a terrible screaming
voice, "Satan! Satan! is this how thou holdest the pact thou hast made
with me? Help, Satan! Help! my time is not out yet!" and the stranger,
it was found, had suddenly vanished. But from the spot where he had
been standing an enormous bat went fluttering up, darted into the thick
of the flames, and thence rose screaming into the air with the old
woman's fur cloak; and the burning pyre went crashing down into
extinction.
Horror seized upon all the spectators; every one now saw clearly that
the distinguished stranger had been none other than the very Devil in
person. He must have had some special grudge against the folks of
Berlin, to whom he had so long behaved so smoothly and in such friendly
fashion, and with hellish deceit betrayed Councillor Lütkens and many
other sapient men and women.
Such is the power of the Evil One; from whom and from all his snares
may Heaven in its mercy defend us all.
When Lothair had finished, he looked into Ottmar's face, in utter
self-irony, with the peculiar expression of bitter sweetness which he
had at his command on such occasions.
"Well," said Theodore, "what think you of Lothair's pretty little
specimen of _diablerie_? One of the best points about it, I think, is
that there is not too much of it."
Whilst Lothair had been reading, Ottmar had laughed a great deal, but
towards the close he had become grave and silent. "I must admit," he
said, "that in this little tale or 'prank'--for I don't know what else
to call it--of Lothair's there predominates an attempt, often more or
less successful, at a certain sort of amusing _naïveté_, very
appropriate to the character of the German Devil. Also, that when he
talks about the Devil's jumping over the streets hand in hand with
respectable townfolk and of the 'chestnut brown schismatic,' who might
turn out a quaint and ugly _savant_, though never a nice, natty,
spick-and-span Member of Council, we see the curvets and the caprioles
of the same little Pegasus which was bestridden by the author of
'Nutcracker.' Still, I think that he ought to have got on the back of a
horse of a different colour; and, indeed, I cannot say what the reason
exactly is why the pleasantly comic impression which the earlier part
of the story produces vanishes away into nothingness; whilst, out of
this nothingness, there ultimately develops a certain something which
becomes most uncanny and unpleasant; and the concluding words, which
are intended to do away with this feeling, do not succeed in doing away
with it."
"Oh, thou most sapient of all critics," Lothair cried, "who dost such
high honour to this most insignificant thing of all the insignificant
things which I have ever written down as to dissect it carefully with
magnifying glasses on nose, let me tell you that it served me as an
anatomical study long ago. Did I not style it a mere product of a mood
of caprice? Have I not anathematized it myself? However, I am glad that
I read it to you, because it gives me an opportunity of speaking my
mind concerning tales of this kind. And I am sure that my Serapion
Brethren will agree with me. In the first place, Ottmar, I should
like to trace out for you the germ of that unpleasant--or, better,
'uncanny'--feeling which you were conscious of when you were at first
beginning to see what you have called the 'amusing _naïveté_' of it.
Whatever grounds the good old Hafftitz may have had for telling us that
the Devil passed a certain time leading the life of a townsman of
Berlin, this remains for us a wholly 'fanciful' or 'fantastic'
incident. And the quality of the 'supernatural'--the 'spookishness' (to
use an expression now not unfamiliar)--which is a leading
characteristic of that tremendous 'principle of negation'--that 'spirit
which eternally denies and destroys'--is, by reason of the (in a
manner) comic contrastedness in which it is presented, calculated to
cause in us the strange sensation, compounded of terror and irony,
which fetters our attention in a manner the reverse of unpleasant. But
the case is quite different as to the terrible witch stories. In them
actual life is brought on to the stage with all its reality of horror.
When I read about Barbara Roloffin's execution, I felt as though I saw
the funeral pyre smoking in the market-place. All the horror of the
terrible witchcraft-trials rose to my memory. A pair of sparkling red
eyes, and an attenuated weazened body, were enough to cause a poor old
creature to be assumed to be a witch, guilty of every description of
wicked and unholy arts and practices; to have legal process instituted
against her, and to be led to the scaffold. The application of the
rack, or other form of torture, confirmed the accusations against her,
and decided the case."
"Still," said Theodore, "it is very remarkable that so many of those
supposititious witches of their own accord confessed their pact, and
other relations, with the Evil One, without any coercion whatever. Two
or three years ago it happened that a number of legal documents fell
into my hands relating to trials for witchcraft; and I could scarce
believe my eyes when I read in them confessions of things which made my
flesh creep. They told of ointments, the use of which turned human
beings into various animals; they spoke of riding on broomsticks, and,
in fact, of all the devilish practices which we read of in old legends.
Bat, first and foremost, and invariably, those supposititious witches
always openly and shamelessly avowed, and boasted--usually of their own
accord--as to their unchaste relations with the unclean and diabolical
'gallant' (as their term for him was). Now, how could such things be
possible?"
"Because," Lothair said, "belief in a diabolical compact actually
brought such a compact about."
"How do you mean? What do you say?" the two others cried together.
"Understand me properly, that is all I ask," said Lothair, "It is
matter of certainty that, in the times when nobody doubted of the
direct and immediate influence of the Devil, or that he constantly
appeared visibly, those miserable creatures, who were hunted down and
put so mercilessly to fire and sword, actually and firmly believed in
all that they were accused of; and that many, in the wickedness of
their hearts, tried their utmost, by means of every description of
supposed arts of witchcraft, to enter into compact with the Devil, for
the sake of gain, or for the doing of evil deeds; and _then_, in
conditions of brain-excitement, produced by beverages affecting their
senses, and by terrible oaths and ceremonies of conjuration, _saw_ the
Evil One, and entered into those compacts which were to confer upon
them supernatural powers. The wildest of the fabrications of the brain
which those confessions contain--based upon inward conviction--do not
seem too wild when one considers what strange fancies--nay, what
terrible infatuations--even hysteria itself is capable of producing in
women. Thus the wickedness of the hearts of those putative witches was
often paid for by a fearful death. We cannot reasonably reject the
testimony of those old witch-trials, for they are supported by the
evidence of witnesses, or other clearly recorded facts; and there are
many instances of people who have committed crimes deserving of death.
Remember Tieck's magnificent tale, 'The Love-Spell.' There is a deed
mentioned in the papers I have been speaking of very analogous to the
crime of the horrible woman in Tieck's tale. So that a death on the
funeral pyre was often really the proper punishment for those fearful
misdoings."
"There occurs to my remembrance," Theodore said, "an occasion when an
accursed crime of that description chanced to be brought vividly before
my own eyes, filling me with the profoundest pain and sorrow. When I
was living in W---- I went to see a certain charming country seat,
L----, which you know. It has been justly said of it that it seems to
float like some stately swan mirrored on the beautiful lake which lies
at its feet. I had heard, before, that there were dark rumours to the
effect that the unfortunate possessor of it, who had died but a short
time before, had carried on magical practices, with the help of an old
woman; and that the aged keeper of the chateau could tell a good deal
about this business, could one gain his confidence. As soon as I saw
this man he struck me as a very remarkable person. Imagine to
yourselves a hoary-headed old man with imprints of the profoundest
terror in his face, dressed poorly, like a peasant, but indicating,
by his manner, unusual cultivation. Remark that this man, whom you
would have taken for an ordinary labourer at the first glance, would
talk to you--if you did not happen to understand the patois of the
district--in the purest French, or in equally good Italian, just as you
chose. I managed to interest and to animate him by touching, as we
wandered through the great halls, on the troubles which his late master
had had to go through, and by showing that I was, to some extent,
acquainted with the subject, and with what had happened in those bygone
days. He explained the deeper meaning of many of the paintings and
adornments (which, to the uninitiated, seemed mere unmeaning
prettinesses), and grew more and more frank and confidential. At last
he opened a small closet, floored with slabs of white marble, in which
the only piece of furniture was a cauldron of brass. The walls seemed
to have been stripped of their former adornments. I knew, I felt, that
I was in the place where the former master of the house, blinded and
befooled by his lust for sensuous enjoyment, had descended to
diabolical practices. When I dropped a word or two hinting at this
subject, the old man raised his eyes to heaven with an expression of
the bitterest melancholy, and said, with a deep sigh, 'Ah! Holy Virgin!
hast thou forgiven him?' He then silently pointed to a large marble
slab embedded in the middle of the flooring. I looked at this slab with
much closeness of observation, and became aware that there were reddish
veins meandering about through the stone. And, as I fixed my attention
upon them more and more closely, heaven aid me! the features of a human
face grew more and more distinctly traceable and visible, just as when,
on looking at a distorted picture through a lens specially constructed,
all its lines and effects then, and not till then, grow clear and
sharp.
"It was the face of a child that was looking at me out of that stone,
marked with the heartrending anguish of the agony of death. I could see
drops of blood welling from the breast; but the rest of the form of the
body seemed to flow vaguely into indistinctness, as if a stream of
water were carrying it away. It was with a hard struggle that I
overcame the horror which well-nigh overmastered me. I could not bring
myself to utter a word. We left that terrible, mysterious place in
silence. Not till I had walked about in the park and the lawns for some
time could I overcome the inexplicable feeling which had so annulled my
enjoyment of that little earthly paradise. From many things which I
gathered from the detached utterances of the old man, I was led to
conclude that the crazy being who had thrust herself into such intimate
relations with the last proprietor of the place (in other respects a
large-hearted and cultivated man) had worked upon him by promising him,
through the exercise of her accursed arts, the fulfilment of his
dearest wishes--unfailing and everlasting happiness in love--and so led
him on to unutterable crime."
"This is an affair for Cyprian," Ottmar said. "He would be as delighted
over the bleeding baby in the marble, and in the old Castellan, as we."
"Well," Theodore went on to say, "although all this affair may be
traceable to foolish fancies--although it may be nothing but a fable
kept up by the people--still, if that strangely-veined slab of marble
is capable, even under the influence of a lively imagination, of
showing the lineaments of a bleeding baby when looked at closely and
carefully, something uncanny must have happened, or the faithful old
servant could not have felt his master's guilt so deeply in his heart,
nor would that strange stone give such a terrible evidence of it."
Ottmar said, replying, "We will take an early opportunity of laying
this matter before Saint Serapion, that we may ascertain exactly how it
stands; but for the time, I think we ought to let witches alone, and go
back to our subject of the 'German Devil,' as to which I would fain say
a word or two. What I am driving at is--that the characteristic German
manner of treating this subject is seen in its truest colour when it is
a question of the Devil's manner of conducting himself in ordinary
everyday life. Whenever he takes part in that, he is thoroughly 'up' in
every description of evil and mischief--in everything that is terrible
and alarming. He is always on the alert to set traps for the good, so
as to lead as many of them as possible over to his own kingdom; but yet
he is a thoroughly fair and honourably-dealing personage, abiding by
his compacts and contracts in the most accurate and punctilious manner.
From this it results that he is often outwitted, so that he appears in
the character of a 'stupid' Devil (and this is not improbably the
origin of the common expression 'stupid devil'); but, besides all this,
the character of the German Satan has a strong tincture of the
burlesque mixed up with the more predominant quality of mind-disturbing
terror--that horror which oppresses the mind and disorganizes it. Now,
the art of portraying the Devil in this distinctively German fashion
seems to be very much lost. For this aforesaid amalgamation of his
characteristics does not seem to occur in any of the more recent
attempts at representing him. He is either shown as a mere buffoon, or
as a being so terrible that the mind is revolted by him."
"I think," said Lothair, "you are forgetting one recent story in which
this said mingling of the brightly Intellectual (verging sometimes on
the comic) with the Terrific is very finely managed, and in which the
full effectiveness of the old-world sort of devil-spook-story is
carried out in a masterly manner. I mean Fouqué's splendid tale, the
'Galgenmännlein.'[1] The terribly vivacious little creature in the
phial--who comes out of it at night, and lays himself down on the
breast of that master of his, who has such awful dreams--the fearsome
man in the mountain glen, with his great coal-black steed which crawls
up the perpendicular cliffs like a fly on a wall--in short, all the
uncanny and supernatural elements which are present in the story in
such plentiful measure--together rivet and strain the attention to an
extent absolutely frightening; it affects one like some powerful drink,
which immensely excites the senses and at the same time sheds a
beneficent warmth through the heart. It is owing to the tone which
pervades it all through, and to the vividness of the separate pictures,
that, although at the end one is thoroughly delighted that the poor
wretch does get out of the Devil's clutches, still, the element of the
Intellectuality of the evil beings, and the scenes which touch upon the
realm of comedy (such as the part about the 'Half Heller') stand out
with the principal high-lights upon them. I scarcely can think of any
tale of _diablerie_ which has produced such an impression upon me."
[Footnote 1: Known in English as "The Bottle Imp."]
"There can't be much doubt," said Theodore, "that Fouqué got the
materials for that story out of some old chronicle."
"Even if he did," Lothair said, "I should hope you wouldn't detract
from the author's merit on that score, like the more common class of
critics, whose peculiar system obliges them always to try and find out
the fundamental materials from which a writer has 'taken' his work.
They make immense capital out of pointing out said source, and look
down with great contempt on the wretched author who merely kneads his
characters together out of a pre-existent dough. As if it mattered that
the author absorbed into himself germs from without him! The shaping of
the material is the important part of the business. We ought to think
of our Patron Saint Serapion. His stories were told out of his soul as
he had seen them with his eyes, not as he had read about them."
"You do me much injustice, Lothair," said Theodore, "if you suppose I
am of any other opinion. And there is nobody who has shown more
admirably how a subject may be vividly represented than Heinrich Kleist
in his tale of Kohlhaas, the horse dealer."
"However," said Lothair, "as we have been talking of Hafftitz's book, I
should like to read to you a story of which I took most of the leading
ideas from the Michrochronicon. I wrote it during an attack of a very
queer mood of mind, which beset me for a very considerable time. And I
hope, Ottmar, my dear friend, it will lead you to admit that the
'spleen,' which Theodore says I am suffering from, is not so very
serious as he would make it out to be."
He took out a manuscript, and read:
ALBERTINE'S WOOERS.
(A story in which many utterly improbable adventures happen.)
CHAPTER I.
WHICH TREATS OF SWEETHEARTS, WEDDINGS, CLERKS OF THE PRIVY CHANCERY,
PERTURBATIONS, WITCHCRAFT TRIALS, AND OTHER DELECTABLE MATTERS.
On the night of the autumnal equinox, Mr. Tussmann, a clerk in the
Privy Chancery, was making his way from the café, where he was in the
habit of passing an hour or two regularly every evening, towards his
lodgings in Spandau Street. The Clerk of the Privy Chancery was
excessively regular and punctilious in every action of his life. He
always had just done taking off his coat and his boots at the exact
moment when the clocks of St. Mary's and St. Nicholas's churches struck
eleven; so that, as the reverberating echo of the last stroke died
away, he always drew his nightcap over his ears, and placed his feet in
his roomy slippers.
On the night we are speaking of he, in order not to be late in going
through those ceremonies (for the clocks were just going to strike
eleven), was just going to turn out of King Street, round the corner
of Spandau Street, with a rapid sweep--almost to be denominated a
jump--when the sound of a strange sort of knocking somewhere in his
immediate proximity rivetted him to the spot.
And he became aware that, down at the bottom of the Town-house
Tower--rendered visible by the light of the neighbouring lamp--there
was a tall, meagre figure standing, wrapped in a dark cloak, knocking
louder and louder on the closed shutters of Mr. Warnatz, the
ironmonger's shop (which, as everybody knows, is therein situated);
knocking louder and louder, and then going back a few paces and sighing
profoundly, gazing up as he did so at the windows of the Tower, which
were shut.
"My dear sir," said the Clerk of the Privy Chancery, addressing this
personage in a civil and courteous manner, "you are evidently under
some misapprehension. There is not a single human creature up in that
Tower; and indeed--if we except a certain number of rats and mice, and
a few little owls--not a living thing. If you wish to provide yourself
with something superior in the hardware line from Warnatz's celebrated
emporium here, you will have to take the trouble to come back in the
forenoon."
"Respected Herr Tussmann----" the stranger began.
And Tussmann chimed in with "Clerk of the Privy Chancery, of many
years seniority." He was a little annoyed, too--astonished, at all
events--that the stranger seemed to know him. But the latter did not
seem to mind that in the least, but recommenced:
"Respected Herr Tussmann, you are kind enough to be making a complete
mistake as to the nature of my proceedings here. I do not want
ironmongery or hardware of any description; neither have I anything to
do with Mr. Warnatz. This is the night of the autumnal equinox, and I
want to see my future wife! She has heard my ardent and longing
summons, and my sighs of affection, and she will come and show herself
up at that window directly."
The hollow tones in which the man spoke these words had about them
something so solemn--nay, so spectral and supernatural--that the Clerk
of the Privy Chancery felt an icy shudder run through his veins. The
first stroke of eleven rung down from the tower of St. Mary's, and as
it did so, there came a clattering and a clinking up at the broken old
window of the Tower, and a female form became visible at it. As the
bright light of the street lamps fell upon the face of this figure,
Tussmann whimpered out in lamentable tones, "Oh, ye just powers!--Oh,
ye heavenly hosts!--what--_what_ is this?"
At the last stroke of eleven--that is, at the moment when Tussmann
generally put on his nightcap--the female figure vanished.
This extraordinary apparition seemed to drive the Clerk of the Privy
Chancery completely out of his senses. He sighed, groaned, gazed up at
the window, and whispered "Tussmann! Tussmann! Clerk of the Privy
Chancery--bethink yourself, sir! Consider what you're about. Don't let
your heart be troubled. Be not deceived by Satan, good soul."
"You seem to be put out by what you have seen, Mr. Tussmann," the
stranger said. "I only wanted to see my sweetheart--my wife, that is to
be. You must have seen something else, apparently."
"Please, please," Tussmann said in a whimper, "I should be so much
obliged to you if you would be good enough to address me by my little
title. I am Clerk of the Privy Chancery, and truly, at this moment, a
greatly perturbed Clerk of the Privy Chancery--in fact, one almost out
of his senses. I beg you, with all due respect, my very dear sir
(though I regret that I am unable to style you by your proper title, as
I have not the honour to be in the least acquainted with you, having
never met you before--however, I shall address you as 'Herr Geheimer
Rath'--'Mr. Privy Councillor'--there are such an extraordinary number
of gentlemen here in Berlin bearing that title that one can scarcely be
in error in applying it)--I beg you, therefore, Herr Geheimer Rath, to
be so very kind as not to keep me longer in ignorance as to whom the
lady, your future wife, may be, whom you expected to see here at this
hour of the night."
"You're a curious fellow, you and your 'titles,'" the stranger said,
raising his voice. "If a man who knows a number of secrets and
mysteries, and can give good counsel too, is one of your 'privy' or
'secret' councillors, I think _I_ may so style myself. I am surprised
that a gentleman who is so well versed in ancient writings and curious
manuscripts as you are, dear Mr. Tussmann, Clerk of the Privy Chancery,
should not know that when an expert--an _expert_, observe!--knocks at
the door of this Tower here--or even on the wall of it, on the night of
the autumnal equinox, there will appear to him, up at yonder window,
the girl who is to be the happiest and luckiest sweetheart in Berlin
till the spring equinox comes round."
"Mr. Privy Councillor," Tussmann cried, as if in a sudden inspiration,
and with joyful rapture--"Most respected Mr. Privy Councillor! is that
really the case?"
"It is," said the stranger. "But what's the good of our standing in the
street here any longer? It is past your bed time. Let us go to the
new wine-shop in Alexander Street; just that you may hear a little
more about this young lady, and recover your peace of mind, which
something--I have no idea what--has disturbed so tremendously."
Tussmann was a most abstemious person. His sole recreation (for
"dissipation" we cannot term it) consisted in his spending an hour or
two every evening in a café; where, whilst he read assiduously
political and other articles in newspapers, as well as books which he
brought with him, he sipped a glass of good beer. Wine he seldom
touched, except that after service on Sundays he allowed himself a
small glass of Malaga with a biscuit, in a certain restaurant. To go
about dissipating at nights was an abomination in his eyes. So that it
seemed incomprehensible how, on this particular occasion, he allowed
the stranger, who hurried away towards Alexander Street with long
strides, resounding in the darkness, to carry him away with him without
a word of objection.
When they came into the wine-shop there was nobody there but one single
customer, sitting by himself at a table, with a big glass of Rhine wine
before him. The depth of the wrinkled lines on his face indicated
extreme age. His eyes were sharp and piercing, and his grand beard
marked him as a Hebrew, faithful to the ancient laws and customs of his
people. Also his costume was very much in the old Frankish style, as
people dressed about the year 1720; and perhaps that was why he had the
effect of having come back to life out of a period of remote antiquity.
But the stranger whom Tussmann had come across was still more
remarkable of aspect.
A tall, meagre man, powerfully formed as to his limbs and muscles,
seemingly about fifty years of age. His face might once have passed for
handsome, and the great eyes still flashed out from under the black
bushy eyebrows with youthful fire and vigour. The brow was broad and
open; the nose strongly aquiline. All this would not have distinguished
him from a thousand others. But, whilst his coat and trousers were of
the fashion of the present day, his collar, his cloak, and his barret
cap belonged to the latter part of the sixteenth century. But it was
more especially the wonderful eyes of the man, and the blaze of them
(which seemed to come streaming out of deep mysterious night), and the
hollow tones of his voice, and his whole bearing--all in the most
absolute contrast with things of the present day--it was, we say, all
these things taken together which made everybody experience a strong
sense of eeriness in his proximity.
He nodded to the man who was sitting at the table as if to an old
acquaintance.
"Ha!" he cried, "here _you_ are again, after all this time. How do you
feel? Are you all alive and kicking?"
"Just as you see," the old man growled. "Sound as a roach. All ready on
my legs at the proper time. All _there_--when there's anything up."
"I'm not quite so sure about that," the stranger said, laughing loudly;
"we shall see!" And he ordered the waiter to bring a bottle of the
oldest claret in the cellar.
"My good Mr. Privy Councillor," Tussmann began, deprecatingly. But the
stranger interrupted him hastily, saying:
"Let us drop the 'titles,' Tussmann, for once and all! I am neither a
Privy Councillor nor a Clerk of the Privy Council. What I am is an
artist, a worker in the noble metals and the precious jewels; and my
name is Leonhard."
"Oh, indeed!" Tussmann murmured to himself--"a goldsmith! a jeweller!"
And he bethought himself that he might have seen at the first glance
that the stranger could not possibly be an ordinary Privy Councillor,
seeing that he had on an antique mantle, collar, and barret cap, such
as Privy Councillors never went about in nowadays. Leonhard and
Tussmann sat down at the same table with the old Jew, who received them
with a grinning kind of smile.
When Tussmann, at Leonhard's instigation, had taken two or three
glasses of the full-bodied wine, his pale cheeks began to glow, and as
he swallowed the liquor, he glanced about him with smirks and smiles,
as if the most delightful ideas were rising in his brain.
"And now," Leonhard said, "tell me openly and candidly, Mr. Tussmann,
why you went on in such an extraordinary manner when the lady showed
herself at the Tower-window; and what it is that your head is so very
full of at the present moment. You and I are very old acquaintances,
whether you believe it or not; and as to this old gentleman here, you
need be on no ceremony with him."
"Oh, heavens!" answered the Privy Chancery Clerk--"Oh, good heavens!
most respected Herr Professor--(I do beg you to allow me to address you
by that title; I am sure you are a most celebrated artist, and quite in
a position to be a professor in the Academy of Arts)--and so, most
respected Herr Professor, how can I hide from you that I am, as the
proverb puts it, 'walking on wooer's feet.' I am expecting to bring the
happiest of brides home about the vernal equinox. Could it be otherwise
than a rather startling thing, when you, most respected Herr Professor,
were so very kind as to let me see a fortunate bride that is to be?"
"What!" the old Jew broke in, in a screaming voice--"What! are you
thinking of marrying? Why, you're as old as the hills, and as ugly as a
baboon into the bargain."
"Never mind him," Leonbard said; for Tussmann was so startled by what
the old man said that he could not utter a syllable. "He means no harm,
dear Mr. Tussmann, though you may think he seems to do so. I must say,
candidly, that it seems to me, too, that it is a little too late in
life for you to be thinking about such a thing. You must be well on to
your fiftieth birthday; aren't you?"
"I shall be forty-eight," said Tussman, with a certain amount of
irritability, "on the 9th of next October--St. Dionysius's day."
"Very well," said Leonhard. "But it isn't only your age that's against
you--you have always been leading a simple, solitary, virginal
existence. You have no knowledge or experience of women. I can't see
what is to become of you in their hands!"
"Knowledge of them--experience of them! Dear Herr Professor, you must
really take me for a most foolish and inconsiderate person if you think
I am going to plunge into matrimony without any counsel or reflection
or advice. I weigh, consider, and reflect upon every step most
maturely; and, having perceived myself to be pierced to the heart by
the dart of the wanton deity yclept 'Cupid' by the ancients, could I do
otherwise than bend all my thoughts upon the preparation of myself for
the matrimonial life? Would any one who was preparing for a difficult
examination not be careful to study all the subjects on which he is to
be interrogated? Very well, most respected Herr Professor, my marriage
is an examination, for which I have prepared myself, and I feel pretty
certain that I shall pass it admirably--with honours! Look here, at
this little book, which I have always carried about in my pocket,
studying it constantly, since the time when I made up my mind to fall
in love and get married. Look at it, my dear sir; and you will be
convinced that I am setting about this business in the most thorough
and fundamental manner possible, and that I shall certainly not be
found an ignoramus in it; although, as you say (and as I must admit),
the feminine sex is--so far, and up to the present date--to me a
complete _terra incognita_."
With these words Tussmann produced from his pocket a little book in
parchment binding, and turned up its title-page, which ran as
follows:--
"Brief Tractate on Diplomatic Acumen. Embracing methods of Self-Counsel
for guidance in all Societies of our fellow-creatures, conducing to the
attainment of a proper system of Conduct. Of the utmost importance to
all Persons who deem themselves Wise, or wish to become Wiser.
Translated from the Latin of Herr Thomasius. With a complete Index.
Frankfurt and Leipzig. Johann Grossen's Successors. 1710."
"Now just let me show you," said Tussmann, with a sweet smile, "what
this worthy author (in his seventh chapter, which deals with the
subjects 'Wedlock, and the Duties of the Father of a Family and Master
of a Household') says, in the seventh section of that chapter. You see,
what he says is this:
"'Above all things, let there be no hurry about it. He who does not
marry till of mature age is so much the wiser, and the better able to
cope with the exigencies of the situation. Over-early marriages produce
shameless, subtle, and disingenuous people, and sacrifice the vigour of
both body and mind. Although the age of manhood is not the commencement
of youth, the one should not terminate before the other.'"
"And then, with regard to the choice of the object of the
affections--her whom one is to love and to marry--this grand Thomasius
says, in his nineteenth section:
"'The middle course is the safest. We should not select one too
beautiful or too ill-favoured, too rich nor too poor, too high-born or
too low-born, but of like social standing with one's self. And,
similarly, as regards the other qualities, the middle course will be
found always the safest to follow.'"
"Very well, you see, this is what I have always guided myself by. And
(as directed by Thomasius--section seventeen), not only have I had
occasional conversations with the lady of my choice, but (inasmuch as,
in occasional interviews, misapprehensions may arise with respect to
peculiarities of character and modes of looking at matters, &c.) I have
taken opportunities to have very _frequent_ interviews and
conversations with her; because those frequent interviews necessarily
make it very difficult for people to conceal themselves from one
another, don't you see?"
"My dear Mr. Tussmann," the goldsmith said, "it appears to me that all
this sort of intercourse, 'conversation,' or whatever you please to
call it, with women requires one to have a good deal of experience,
extending over a very considerable period of time, if one is to avoid
being befooled and made an ass of by it."
"Even in this," said Tussmann, "our grand Thomasius comes to our aid,
giving us completely adequate instruction as to how we are to
'converse' with ladies, in the most rational and delightful style; even
telling us exactly how and when to introduce the due amount of
playfulness and wit, suitable to the occasion. My author says, in his
fifth chapter, that one ought to be careful to introduce such jocular
sayings sparingly--as a cook uses salt; and that pointed speeches
should never be employed as weapons against others, but altogether in
our own defence--just as a hedgehog uses his spines. And also, that it
is wise to rely more upon the actions than upon the words; because it
is often the case that what is hidden by words is made evident by
actions, and that words very often do not do so much to awaken liking
or disliking as actions do."
"I see," the goldsmith said, "there is no getting anything like a rise
out of you. You are closed up in armour of proof. So I am prepared to
bet, heavily, that you have gained the affections of the lady of your
choice by means of those wonderfully deep diplomatic dodges of yours."
Tussmann answered, "I study to direct all my endeavours (following
Thomasius's advice) to attain a deferential, though kindly,
agreeableness of demeanour, that being the most natural and usual
indication of affection, and what is most adapted to awaken liking in
reciprocation: just as if you yawn, you will set an entire company
gaping too, from sympathy. But, reverentially as I follow his
instructions, I don't go too far; I always recollect that (as Thomasius
says) women are neither good angels nor bad angels, but mere human
beings; and, in fact, as regards strength of mind and body, weaker than
we are, which, of course, is fully accounted for by the diversity which
exists between the sexes."
"A black year come over you!" the old Jew cried wrathfully, "sitting
there chattering your cursed stuff and nonsense without a stop;
spoiling for me the good hour in which I hoped to enjoy myself a little
after all the hard work I've been going through."
"Hold your tongue, old man," the goldsmith said. "You ought to be very
thankful that we put up with you here. I can tell you your company is
anything but pleasant; your manners are so abominable. You ought to be
kicked out of decent society, if you had your deserts. Don't let the
old man disturb you, dear Mr. Tussmann. You believe in the old times;
you're fond of old Thomasius. I go a good deal further back. What I
care about is the time to which, as you see, my dress partly belongs.
Aye! my good friend, those were the days! It is to them that that
little spell belongs which you saw me putting into practice to-night at
the Town-house Tower."
"I don't quite understand you, Herr Professor,'' Tussmann said.
"Well," said the goldsmith, "there used to be splendid weddings in
those old days in the Town-hall--very different affairs from the
weddings nowadays. Plenty of happy brides used to look out of those
Tower-windows in those days, so that it's a piece of pleasant glamour
when an aerial form comes and tells us what is going to happen now,
from knowledge of olden times. Let me tell you, this Berlin was a very
different place in those old days; nowadays everything is marked with
the same stamp of tediousness and _ennui_, and people _ennuyer_ one
another just because they are so _ennuyées_ and weary in themselves. In
those days there were entertainments, feastings, rejoicings worthy the
name, very different from the affairs that are so called now. I shall
only speak of what was done at Oculi, in the year 1581, when the
Elector Augustus of Saxony, with his Consort, and Don Christian, his
son, were escorted to Cologne by all the nobles and gentry. There were
over a hundred horse, and the citizens of both the cities--Berlin and
Cologne--and those of Spandau lined both sides of the road from the
gate to the palace in complete armour. Next day there was a splendid
running at the ring, at which the Elector of Saxony and Count Jost of
Barby appeared, with many nobles--in fine suits of gold embroidery, and
tall golden helms, golden lions' heads on their shoulders, knees, and
elbows, with flesh-coloured silk on the other parts of their arms and
legs, just as if they had been naked---exactly as you see the heathen
warriors painted in pictures. There were singers and musicians hidden
inside a gilt Noah's Ark, and on the top of it sat a little boy in
flesh-coloured silk tights, with his eyes bandaged, as Cupid is
represented. Two other boys, dressed as doves, with white ostrich
feathers, golden eyes and beaks, drew ±he ark along; and when the
prince had run at the ring and been successful, the music in the ark
played, and a number of pigeons were let fly from it. One of them
flapped its wings and sang a most delightful Italian _aria_, and did it
much better than our Court singer Bernard Pasquino Grosso from Mantua
did seventy years afterwards (but not so charmingly as our _prime
donne_ sing nowadays). Then there was a foot tournay, to which the
Elector and the Count went in a ship, which was all dressed over with
black and yellow cloth, and had a sail of gold taffeta; and behind His
Highness sate the little boy who had been Cupid the day before, in a
long coat of many colours, a peaked black and yellow hat, and a
long grey beard. The singers and musicians were dressed in the same
way; and nil round about the ship a number of gentlemen danced and
jumped--gentlemen of good family, mind you!--with heads and tails of
salmon, herrings, and fishes of other sorts: most delightful to behold.
In the evening, about ten, there was a grand display of fireworks, with
thousands of detonations; and the master-gunners played all sorts of
pranks--had combats; and there were explosions of fiery stars; and
fiery men and horses, strange birds and other creatures, went up into
the air with a terrible rushing and banging. They went on for more than
two hours, those fireworks."
Whilst the goldsmith was narrating all this, the Clerk of the
Privy Chancery gave every sign of the liveliest interest and the
utmost enjoyment, crying, in a sympathizing and interested manner,
"Ey!--oh!--ah!"--smiling, rubbing his hands, moving backwards and
forwards on his chair, and gulping down glass after glass of the wine
the while.
"Dearest Professor," he cried at last, in falsetto (always a mark in
him of intense enjoyment)--"My dearest, most respected Herr Professor!
what delightful things you have been having the kindness to tell me
about!--really _quite_ as though you had been there and seen them
yourself."
"Well!" the goldsmith said, "and wasn't I there?"
Tussmann, who didn't in the least understand this extraordinary
query, was going to try to get some further light thrown upon it, when
the old Jew came in with a growl, to the following effect: "Don't
forget those delightful entertainments when the pyres burned in the
market-place--the Berlin folks were much delighted with them, you know;
and the streets ran red with the blood of the wretched victims, slain
in the most terrific manner, after confessing whatever was imputed to
them by the wildest infatuation and the most idiotic superstition.
Don't, I merely say, forget to tell your friend about them!"
"Yes, yes," Tussmann said; "of course you mean those terrible
witchcraft trials which took place in those old days. Ah! they were
atrocious businesses; fortunately the enlightenment of the present age
has altered all those things."
The goldsmith cast strange looks at the old Jew and at Tussmann; and
presently asked the latter, with a mysterious smile, if he had ever
heard about the Jew-coiner, Lippold, and what had happened to him in
the year 1512.
Ere Tussmann could answer, the goldsmith went on to say: "This
Jew-coiner, Lippold, was accused of an important imposture, and a
serious roguery. He had at one time been much in the confidence of the
Elector, and was at the head of all the affairs of the mints and the
coinage in the country; always ready to produce large sums of money, no
matter how large, when required. Whether because he was clever at
shifts, or that he had powers at his command which enabled him to clear
himself from all blame in the Elector's eyes, or that he was able to
'shoot with a silver bullet' (to use an expression of those times)
those who had influence over the Elector's proceedings, he was on the
very point of getting off scot free from the accusations brought
against him. But he was still kept under guard, by the town-watch, in
his little house in Stralau Street. And it so chanced that he had a
quarrel with his wife, in the course of which she said to him, in the
hearing of the guard, 'If our gracious lord the Elector only knew what
a villain you are, and what atrocities you manage to commit by the help
of that magic book of yours, you'd be in your coffin long ago.' This
was reported to the Elector, who had careful search made in Lippold's
house. The magic book was found, and, when it was examined by those who
understood it, Lippold's guilt was clearly established. He had
practised magical arts to give him power over the Elector, and to
enable him to rule the whole country; and it was only the piety and
Godfearingness of the Elector which had enabled him to withstand those
spells. Lippold was burned in the market-place. But when the fire was
taking effect on his body and upon the magic book, a great mouse came
out from under the scaffold, and leaped into the fire. Many supposed
that this was Lippold's familiar demon."
Whilst the goldsmith had been relating this, the old Jew had sate
leaning his arms on the table, with his hands before his eyes, groaning
and sighing like one suffering unendurable tortures. On the other hand,
the Clerk of the Privy Chancery did not seem to be paying much
attention to what the goldsmith was saying. He was in high good-humour,
and his mind was full of quite other ideas and images; and, when the
goldsmith had ended, he asked, with many smiles, and in a lisping
manner: "Tell me, dear Herr Professor, if you will be so kind, was it
really Miss Albertine Bosswinkel who came and looked out of the window
of the Tower?"
"What?" cried the goldsmith, furiously--"what business have _you_ with
Miss Albertine Bosswinkel?"
"My dear sir!" said Tussmann, timidly--"good gracious! My dear friend,
she is the very lady whom I have made up my mind to marry!"
"Good God, sir!" the goldsmith cried, with a face as red as a furnace,
and eyes glaring with anger; "you must be out of your reason
altogether. _You_, an old, worn-out pedant, to think of marrying that
beautiful young creature! _You_, who, with all your erudition, and your
'diplomatic acumen,' taken from the idiotic treatise of that old goose
Thomasius, can't see a quarter of an inch before that nose of yours! I
advise you to drive every idea of the kind out of your head as quickly
as you can, or you will probably find that you stand a good chance of
having that weazened neck of yours drawn, on this autumn equinoctial
night!"
The Clerk of the Privy Chancery was a quiet, peaceable, nay, timorous
man, incapable of saying a hard word to anybody, even when attacked;
but what the goldsmith had said was just a trifle too infernally
insulting; and then, Tussmann had taken more strong wine than he was
accustomed to. Accordingly, there was no wonder that he did what he had
never done before in his life---that is, he burst into a fury, and
yelled out, right into the goldsmith's teeth: "Eh! What the devil
business have you with me, Mr. Goldsmith (whose acquaintance I haven't
the honour of); and how dare you talk to me in this sort of way? You
seem to me to be trying to make an ass of me, by all sorts of childish
delusions. I presume you have the effrontery to be paying your
addresses to Miss Bosswinkel yourself; you've got hold of a portrait of
her on glass, and shown it at the Town-hall in a magic-lantern held
under your cloak. My good sir, _I_ know something about these matters,
as well as _you_ do; you're going the wrong way to work if you think
you're going to frighten and bully _me_ in this sort of way."
"Be careful what you're about," the goldsmith said, very quietly, and
with a strange smile. "Be very careful what you're about; you've got
strange sort of people to do with here."
And as he so spake, lo! instead of the goldsmith's face, there was a
horrid-looking fox's face snarling and showing its teeth at Tussmann
from under the goldsmith's bonnet.
The Clerk of the Privy Chancery fell back in his chair in the
profoundest terror.
The old Jew did not seem to be in the least degree surprised by this
transformation; rather, he had suddenly lost his mood of ill-temper
altogether. He laughed, and cried, "Aha! capital sport! But there's
nothing to be _made_ by those arts. I know better ones. I can do things
which were always beyond _you_, Leonhard."
"Let us see," said the goldsmith, who had assumed his human countenance
again--"let us see what you can do."
The old man took from his pocket a large black radish, trimmed it and
scraped it with a little knife, which also came from his pocket,
shredded it into thin strips, and laid them in order on the table. Then
he struck each of them a blow with his clenched fist; when they sprung
up, one by one, ringing, in the shape of gold coins, which he took up
and threw across to the goldsmith. But as soon as the goldsmith took
hold of one of those coins, it fell to dust, in a little shower of
crackling sparks of fire. This infuriated the old man. He went on
striking the radish-shavings into gold pieces faster and faster,
hitting them harder and harder, and they crackled away in the
goldsmith's hand with fierier and fierier sparks.
Tussmann was nearly out of his senses with fear and agitation. At last
he pulled himself together out of the swoon into which he was nearly
falling, and said, in trembling accents: "Really, I must beg, with all
due courtesy and respect, to say that I feel that I should much prefer
to bid 'Good-evening' on this occasion." And grasping his hat and
stick, he bolted out of the room as quickly as he could. When he
reached the street, he heard those two uncanny people setting up a
shout of screaming laughter after him, which made the blood run cold in
his veins.
CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH IT IS RELATED HOW, BY THE INTERVENTION OF A CIGAR WHICH WOULD
NOT DRAW, A LOVE-AFFAIR WAS SET AGOING BETWEEN A LADY AND
GENTLEMAN WHO HAD PREVIOUSLY KNOCKED THEIR HEADS TOGETHER.
The manner in which young Edmund Lehsen, the painter, made acquaintance
with the mysterious goldsmith, Leonhard, was somewhat different to that
in which Tussmann had done so.
Edmund was one day sketching a beautiful group of trees in a lonely
part of the Thiergarten, when Leonhard came up, and, without any
ceremony, looked over his shoulder at what he was doing. Edmund did not
disturb himself, but went on with his sketch, till the goldsmith
cried--
"That is a most extraordinary picture, young gentleman. Those will come
to be something else than trees before you have done with them."
"Do you see anything out of the way, sir?" Edmund said, with flashing
eyes.
"I mean," said the goldsmith, "that there are all sorts of forms
and shapes peeping out from amongst those high leaves there, in
ever-changing variety: geniuses, strange animals, maidens, and flowers.
Yet the whole thing ought only to amount to that group of trees before
us there, through which the rays of the evening sun are streaming so
charmingly."
"Sir!" Edmund answered, "either you have a very profound understanding,
and a most penetrating eye for matters of this kind, or I have been
unusually successful in portraying my inmost feelings. Don't you
perceive when, in looking at Nature, you abandon yourself to all your
feelings of longing, all kinds of wonderful shapes and forms come
looking at you through the trees with beautiful eyes? That was what I
was trying to represent to the senses in this sketch, and I see I have
succeeded."
"I understand," Leonhard said, rather coldly and dryly. "You wanted to
drop study, and give yourself a rest, to refresh and strengthen your
fancy."
"Not at all," Edmund answered. "I consider this way of working from
Nature is my best and most useful 'study.' Study of this sort enables
me to put the really poetic and imaginative element into my landscape.
Unless the landscape painter is every bit as much a poet as the
portrait painter, he will never be anything but a dauber."
"Heaven help us!" cried the goldsmith. "So you, dear Edmund Lehsen, are
going to----"
"You know me, then, sir, do you?" the painter cried.
"Why shouldn't I?" said Leonhard. "I first made your acquaintance on an
occasion which you, probably, don't remember much about; that is to
say, when you were born. Considering the small experience which you had
at that time, you had behaved very well--had given your mamma little
trouble--and as soon as you came into the world, gave a very pretty cry
of pleasure and delight. Also, you showed a great love for the
daylight, which, by my advice, you were not kept away from. Because,
according to the most recent medical opinions, daylight is far from
having a bad effect on babies, but rather is beneficial to their bodies
and their minds. Your papa was so pleased that he hopped about the room
on one leg, singing
'The manly heart with love o'erflowing,'
from Mozart's 'Flauto Magico.'
"Presently he handed your little person over to me, and asked me to
draw your horoscope, which I did. Afterwards I often came to your
father's house, and you didn't disdain to suck at the little bags of
almonds and raisins which I used to bring you. Then, when you were
about six or eight, I went away on my peregrinations. When I got back
to Berlin I saw with satisfaction that your father had sent you here
from Münchberg to study the noble art of painting; because there is not
a very large collection in Münchberg of works adapted for fundamental
study, either in the shape of pictures, statues, bronzes, gems, or
other art-treasures of value. That good native town of yours can
scarcely vie with Rome, Florence, or Dresden in that respect; or
perhaps even with what Berlin will one day become, when bran-new
antiques, fished out of the Tiber, have been brought to it in some
considerable quantity."
"Heavens!" Edmund cried, "the most vivid remembrances out of my
childhood are awaking themselves in my mind. You are Herr Leonhard, are
you not?"
"Certainly!" Leonhard answered. "Leonhard is my name. Yet I am a little
astonished that you should remember me all this long time."
"I do, though," Edmund answered. "I know that I was always glad when
you came to my father's, because you always brought me such delicious
things to eat, and petted me. But I always felt a sort of reverential
awe for you; in fact, more than that--a kind of oppressive anxiousness,
which often lasted after you were gone. But what makes the remembrance
of you remain so vividly in my mind is what my father used to say about
you. He set great store by your friendship, because you had got him out
of a number of troubles in the most wonderful way--out of some of those
difficulties which come upon people in this world so often. And he used
to speak in the most enthusiastic way about the extent to which you had
penetrated into deep and mysterious branches of science; how you
controlled many of the secret powers of Nature at your will. Not only
that, but (begging your pardon for saying so) he often went so far as
to give us to understand that you were really nobody other than
Ahasuerus, the Wandering Jew."
"Why not the Pied Piper of Hamelin? or the King of the Kobolds?"
cried the goldsmith. "All the same, there is some foundation for the
idea that there is something a little out of the everyday line about
me--something which I don't care to talk about, for fear of giving rise
to 'unpleasantness.' I certainly did some good turns to your papa, by
means of my secret knowledge, or 'art.' He was particularly pleased
with the horoscope which I cast for you at your birth."
"It wasn't so very clear, though," Edmund said. "My father often told
me you said I should be a great something--either a great Artist, or a
great Ass. At all events, I have to thank this utterance for my
father's having given consent to my wish to be a painter; and don't you
think your horoscope is going to turn out true?"
"Oh, most certainly," the goldsmith answered, very dryly; "there can be
no doubt about that. At this moment you are in the fairest possible way
to turn out a very remarkable Ass."
"What!" cried Edmund--"you tell me so to my face!--you----"
"It rests altogether with yourself," the goldsmith said, "to avoid the
bad alternative of my horoscope, and turn out a very remarkable
Painter. Your drawings and sketches show that you have a rich and
lively imagination, much power of expression, and a great deal of
cleverness in execution. You may raise a grand edifice on those
foundations. Carefully keep away from all 'modish' exaggerations and
eccentricities, and apply yourself to serious study. I congratulate you
upon your efforts to imitate the grave, earnest simpleness of the old
German masters. But, even in that direction, you must carefully shun
the precipice which so many fall over. It needs a profound
intelligence, and a mind strong enough to resist the enervating
influence of the Modern School, to grasp, wholly, the true spirit of
the old German masters, and to penetrate completely into the
significance of their pictures. Without those qualifications, the true
spark will never kindle in an artist's heart, nor the genuine
inspiration produce works which, without being imitations, shall be
worthy of a better age. Nowadays young fellows think that when they
patch together something on a Biblical subject, with figures all skin
and bone, faces a yard long, stiff angular draperies, a perspective all
askew, they have painted a work in the style of the great old German
masters. Dead-minded imitators of that description are like the country
lad who holds his bonnet before his face while the Paternoster is being
sung in church, and says if he doesn't remember the words, he knows the
tune."
The goldsmith said much more that was true and beautiful on the subject
of the noble art of painting, and gave Edmund a great many valuable
hints and lessons; so that the latter, much impressed, asked how it had
been possible for him to acquire so much knowledge on the subject
without being a painter himself; and why he went on living in such
seclusion, and never brought his influence to bear on artistic effort
of all descriptions.
"I have told you already," the goldsmith said, in a gentle and serious
tone, "that my ways of looking at life, and at things in general, have
been rendered exceptionally acute by a long--aye, a marvellously
long--course of experience. As regards my living in seclusion, I know
that wherever I should appear, I should produce a rather extraordinary
effect, as a result, not only of my nature in general, but more
especially of a certain power which I possess; so that my living
quietly in Berlin here might not be a very easy matter. I keep thinking
of a certain person who, in many respects, might have been an ancestor
of mine: so marvellously like me in every respect, in body and mind
too, that there are times not a few when I almost believe (perhaps it
may be fancy) that I am that person. I mean a Swiss of the name of
Leonhard Turnhäuser zum Thurm, who lived at the court of the Elector
Johann Georg, about the year 1582. In those days, as you know, every
chemist was supposed to be an alchemist, and every astronomer was
called an astrologer; so Turnhäuser was very probably both. It is
certain, at all events, that he did most wonderful things, and, _inter
alia_, was a very marvellous doctor. Unfortunately, he had a trick of
putting his finger in every pie, and getting conspicuously mixed up in
all that was going on. This made him envied and hated; just as people
who have money and make a display with it, though it may be never so
well earned, bring enemies about their throats. Thus it came about that
people made the Elector believe that Turnhäuser could make gold, and
that, if he did not do so, he had his reasons for so abstaining. Then
his enemies came to the Elector and said--'See what a cunning,
shameless rascal this is. He boasts of powers which he does not
possess, and carries on sorceries and Jewish deceptions, for which he
ought to be burned at the stake like Lippolt the Jew.' Turnhäuser had
been a goldsmith by trade, and this came out. Then everybody said he
had none of the knowledge imputed to him, though he had given the most
incontrovertible proofs of it in open day. They even said that he had
never, himself, written any of the sage and clever books and important
prognostications which he published, but had paid others to do them. In
short, envy, hatred, and calumny brought matters so far that he was
obliged to leave Berlin in the most secret manner, to escape the fate
of the Jew Lippolt; then his enemies said he had gone to the Catholics
for protection. But »that is not true. He went to Saxony, and worked at
his trade there, though he did not give up the study and practice of
his science."
Edmund was wonderfully attracted to this old goldsmith, who inspired in
him a reverential trustfulness and confidence. Not only was he a critic
of the most instructive quality, though severe; but he told Edmund
secrets concerning the preparation of colours and the combining of them
known to the old masters, and of the most precious importance when he
put them to the test of practice. Thus there was formed, between these
two, one of those alliances which come about when there is on the one
hand hopeful confidence, in a young disciple, and, on the other,
affectionate paternal friendship on the part of a teacher.
About this time it happened, one fine summer evening, that Herr
Melchior Bosswinkel, Commissionsrath, who was taking his pleasure in
the Thiergarten, could not manage to get a single one of his cigars to
draw. He tried one after another, but every one of them was stopped up.
He threw them away, one after another, getting more and more vexed and
annoyed as he did so; at last he cried out: "Oh, God! and those are
supposed to be the very finest brands to be got in Hamburg. Damme! I've
spared neither trouble nor money, and here they play the very deuce
with every idea of enjoyment--not one of the infernal things will draw.
Can a man enjoy the beauties of nature, or take part in any sort of
rational conversation, when these damnable things won't burn? Oh, God!
it's terrible!"
He had involuntarily addressed these remarks to Edmund Lehsen, who
happened to be close beside him with a cigar which was drawing
splendidly.
Edmund, who had not the slightest idea who the Commissionsrath was,
took out his cigar-case and offered it politely to this desperate
person, saying that he could vouch for both the quality and the drawing
powers of his cigars, although he had not got them from Hamburg, but
out of a shop in Frederick Street.
The Commissionsrath accepted, full of gratitude and pleasure, with a
"Much obliged, I'm sure." And as, the moment he touched the end of the
cigar which Edmund was smoking with the one just obtained from him,
this latter drew delightfully, and sent out the loveliest and most
delicious clouds of blue odoriferous smoke, he cried, enraptured:
"Oh, my dear sir! you have really rescued me from the profoundest
depths of misery. Do please to accept a thousand thanks. In fact, I
would almost venture to ask you to let me have one more of those
magnificent cigars of yours, to be going on with when this one is
finished."
Edmund said the contents of his cigar-case were quite at the
gentleman's disposal; and then they went on their several ways.
Presently, when the twilight had fallen a little, and Edmund, with the
idea for a picture in his head, was making his way, rather absently,
not paying much attention to those about him, pushing through amongst
the chairs and tables so as to get out of the crowd, the
Commissionsrath suddenly appeared in front of him, asking him if he
would not come and sit down at his table. Just as he was going to
decline--because he was longing to get away into the open country--he
suddenly caught sight of a young lady, the very incarnation of youth,
beauty, and delightsomeness, who was seated at the Commissionsrath's
table.
"My daughter, Albertine," the Commissionsrath said to Edmund, who was
gazing motionless at the lady, almost forgetting that it was incumbent
on him to bow to her. He recognised, at the first glance, in Albertine,
the beautiful creature whom he had come across at the last exhibition
as she was admiring one of his own pictures. She was describing and
pointing out the meaning of this fanciful picture to an old lady and
two girls who were with her; explaining the peculiarities of the
drawing and the grouping; applauding the painter, and saying that he
was quite a young artist, though so full of promise, and that she
wished she knew him. Edmund was standing close behind her, drinking in
the praise which flowed from her beautiful lips. His heart was so full
that he could not bring himself to go forward and say he was the
painter. And at this juncture Albertine happened to drop one of her
gloves, which she had taken off. Edmund stooped to pick it up, and as
Albertine did the same thing at the same instant, their heads banged
together with such a crash that it rang through the place.
"Oh, good gracious!" Albertine cried, holding her hands to her head.
Edmund started back in consternation and alarm. At his first step he
stamped on the old lady's pug, which yelled aloud; at his second he
trampled the gouty toe of a professor, who gave a tremendous shout, and
devoted poor Edmund to all the infernal deities. Then the people came
hurrying from the neighbouring rooms, and all the lorgnettes were fixed
upon Edmund, who made the best of his way out of the place, amid the
whimperings of the dog, the curses of the professor, the objurgations
of the old lady, and the tittering and laughter of the girls. He made,
we say, his escape in those circumstances, blushing over and over with
shame and discomfiture, in complete despair, whilst a number of young
ladies got out their essence-bottles and rubbed Albertine's forehead,
on which a great lump was rapidly rising.
Even then, in the crisis of this ridiculous occurrence, Edmund had
fallen deeply in love, though he was scarcely aware of it himself. And
it was only a painful sense of his own stupidity that prevented him
from going to search for her all over the town. He could not think of
her otherwise than with a great red lump on her forehead, and the
bitterest reproach, the most distinct expression of anger, in her face
and in her whole being.
There was not the faintest trace of this, however, about her as he saw
her now. She blushed indeed over and over again when she saw him, and
seemed unable to control herself. But when her father asked him his
name, &c., she said with a delightful smile, and in gentle accents,
"that she must be much mistaken if he were not Mr. Lehsen, the
celebrated painter, whose works she so immensely admired."
Those words, we need not say, ran through Edmund's nerves like an
electric shock. In his emotion he was about to burst into flowers of
rhetoric, but the Commissionsrath would not let him get to that,
clasping him to his breast with fervour, and saying, "My dear sir, what
about the cigar you promised me?" And whilst he was lighting said cigar
at the ashes of the former one, he said, "So you are a painter? and a
great one, from what my daughter Albertine tells me--and she knows what
she is talking about in such matters, I can assure you. I'm very glad
you are. I love pictures, and, as my daughter Albertine says, 'Art'
altogether, most tremendously. I simply dote upon it. And I know
something about it, too. I'm a first-rate judge of a picture. My
daughter Albertine and I know what we're about there. We've got eyes in
our heads. Tell me, my dear painter, tell me without hesitation, wasn't
it you who painted those pictures which I stop and look at every day as
I pass them, because I cannot help standing to admire the colouring of
them? Oh, it is beautiful!"
Edmund did not quite understand how the Commissionsrath managed to see
any pictures of his daily in passing them, seeing that he had never
painted any signboards, that he could remember. But after a good deal
of questioning, it turned out that Melchior Bosswinkel meant certain
lacquered tea-trays, stove-shades, and things of that sort, which he
saw and much admired in a shop-window as he went to business of a
morning, after two or three sardines and a glass of Dantziger at the
Sala Tarone. These productions constituted his highest ideal of the
pictorial art. This disgusted the painter not a little; and he cursed,
internally, Bosswinkel and his wretched chatter, which was preventing
him from making any approach to the young lady. At last there came up
an acquaintance, who engaged him in conversation, and Edmund took
advantage of this to go and sit down beside Albertine, who seemed to be
very much pleased at his doing so.
Every one who knows Miss Albertine Bosswinkel is aware that, as has
been said, she is the very personification of youth, beauty, and
delightsomeness; that, like all other Berlin young ladies, she dresses
in the best possible taste in the latest fashions, sings in Zelter's
choir, has lessons on the piano from Herr Lauska, dances most
beautifully, sent a tulip charmingly embroidered and surrounded by
violets to the last exhibition, and though by nature of a bright,
lively temperament, is quite capable of displaying the proper amount of
sentimentality required at tea-parties, at all events. Also, that she
copies poetical extracts and sentences which have pleased her in the
writings of Goethe, Jean Paul, and other talented men and women, in the
loveliest little tiny handwriting into a nice little book with a gilt
morocco cover.
Of course it was natural that, sitting beside the young painter, whose
heart was beaming with the bliss of a timid affection, she should
be several degrees more sentimental than was usual on the tea and
reading-aloud occasions; and she lisped in the prettiest manner about
such subjects as poetic feeling, depth of idea, childlike simplicity,
and so forth.
The evening breeze had begun to sigh, breathing perfume from the
flowers and wafting their scents on its wings; and two nightingales
were singing a lovely duetto in among the thick darkling leafage, in
the tenderest accents of love-complaining.
Albertine began, quoting from Fouqué--
"A rustling, whisper'd singing
Breaks thro' the leaves of spring,
And over heart, and sense, and soul
A web of love doth fling."
And Edmund, grown less timid now that the twilight was falling more
deeply, took her hand and laid it on his heart, whilst he went on,
continuing the quotation--
"Did I, in whispered music, sing
What my heart hears--aright--
From that sweet lay would burst, in fire,
Love's own Eternal Light."
Albertine withdrew her hand, but only to take off her glove, and then
give the hand back to this lucky youngster. He was just going to kiss
it fervently, when the Commissionsrath broke in with a
"Oh! I say! How chilly it's getting! I wish I had brought my great
coat! Put on your shawl, Tiny! It's a fine Turkish shawl, my dear
painter--cost fifty ducats. Wrap yourself up in it, Tiny; we must be
getting home. Good-bye, my _dear_ sir."
Edmund was here inspired by a happy thought. He took out his cigar case
and offered the Commissionsrath a third Havannah.
"I really am excessively obliged to you," the Commissionsrath said,
delighted; "you really are most kind. The police don't let one smoke
walking about in the Thiergarten, for fear of the grass getting burnt;
one enjoys a pipe or a cigar more for that very reason."
Bosswinkel went up to the lamp to light the cigar, and Edmund took
advantage of his doing so to whisper to Albertine, very shyly, that he
hoped she would let him walk home with her. She put her arm in his,
they went on together, and Bosswinkel, when he joined them, seemed to
consider it a matter of course that Edmund was going to walk with them
all the way to town.
Anybody who has once been young, and in love--or who is both now at
this present time (there are many who have never been either the one or
the other)--will understand how Edmund, at Albertine's side, thought he
was hovering over the tops of the trees, rather than walking through
amongst them; up among the gleaming clouds, rather than down upon the
earth.
Rosalind, in Shakespeare's 'As You Like It,' says that the "marks"
of a man in love are "a lean cheek, a blear eye and sunken, an
unquestionable spirit, a beard neglected, hose ungartered, bonnet
unhanded, sleeve unbuttoned, shoe untied, and everything demonstrating
a careless desolation." But those marks were as little seen in Edmund
as in Orlando. Like the latter, however, who marred all the trees of
the forest with carving his mistress's name on them, hung odes on the
whitethorns, and elegies on the bramble-bushes, Edmund spoilt
quantities of paper, parchment, canvas and colours, in besinging his
beloved in verses which were wretched enough, and in drawing her, and
painting her, without ever succeeding in making her in the least
like--so far did his fancy soar above his capability. When to this was
added the peculiar, unmistakable somnambulistic look of the love-sick,
and a fitting amount of sighing at all times and seasons, it was not to
be wondered at that the old goldsmith saw into his young friend's
condition.
"H'm," he said; "you don't seem to think what an undesirable thing it
is to fall in love with a girl who is engaged. For Albertine Bosswinkel
is as good as engaged already to Tussmann, the Clerk of the Privy
Chancery."
This terrible piece of news sent Edmund into the wildest despair.
Leonhard waited patiently till the first paroxysm was past, and then
asked if he really wanted to marry Albertine. Edmund declared that was
the dearest wish of his heart, and implored the goldsmith to help him
as much as ever he could to beat Tussmann out of the field, and win the
lovely lady himself.
What the goldsmith thought and said was that a young artist might fall
in love as much as ever he liked, but to marry straight away was a very
different affair; and that was just why young Sternbald never cared to
marry, and, for all he knew, was still unmarried up to that hour.
This thrust took effect, because Tieck's 'Sternbald' was Edmund's
favourite book, and he would have been only too glad to have been the
hero of that tale himself. So he then and there put on a very pitiful
face, and was very near bursting into tears.
"Well," said the goldsmith, "whatever happens, I am going to take
Tussmann off your hands. What you have got to do is to get into
Bosswinkel's house, by hook or by crook, as often as you can, and
attract Albertine to you as much as you can manage to do. As for my
operations against the Clerk of the Privy Chancery, they can't be begun
till the night of the Autumnal Equinox."
CHAPTER III.
CONTAINS A DETAILED DESCRIPTION OF MR. TUSSMANN, CLERK OF THE PRIVY
CHANCERY; WITH THE REASON WHY HE HAD TO DISMOUNT THE ELECTOR'S
HORSE; AND OTHER MATTERS WORTHY TO BE READ.
Dear reader! From what you have already learnt concerning Mr. Tussmann,
you can see the man before you, in all his works and ways. But, as
regards his outward man, I ought to add that he was short of stature,
very bald, a little bow-legged, and very grotesque in his dress. He
wore a coat of the most old-world cut, with endlessly long tails; a
waistcoat, also of enormous length; and long white trousers, with shoes
which, as he walked, made as loud a clatter as the boots of a courier.
Here it should be observed that he never walked in the streets with
regular steps, like most people, but jumped, so to speak, with great
irregular strides, and incredible rapidity, so that the aforesaid long
tails of his coat spread themselves out like wings, in the breeze which
he thus created around him. Although there was something excessively
comic about his face, yet there was a most kindly smile playing about
his mouth which impressed you in his favour; and everybody liked him,
though they laughed at the pedantry and awkwardness of his behaviour,
which estranged him from the world. His passion was reading. He never
went out but he had both his coat-pockets crammed full of books. He
read wherever he was, and in all circumstances; walking or standing, as
he took his exercise, in church and in the café. He read
indiscriminately everything that came to his hand: but only out of old
times, the present being hateful to him. Thus, to-day he would be
studying, in the café, a work on algebra; to-morrow, 'Frederick the
Great's Cavalry Regulations,' and next the remarkable book, 'Cicero
proved to be a Pettifogger and a Windbag: in Ten Discourses. Anno
1720.' Moreover, he had a most extraordinary memory; he marked all the
passages which particularly struck him in a book, then read all those
marked passages over again, after which he never forgot them any more.
Hence he was a polyhistor, and a walking encyclopædia, and people
turned over the leaves of him when they wanted information on any
point. It was only on the rarest occasions that he was unable to supply
the information required on the spot, but, if he couldn't, he would go
rummaging in various libraries till he could get at it, and then emerge
with it, greatly delighted. It was remarkable that when (as usual) he
was reading in society, to all appearance completely absorbed in his
book, he heard, and took in, everything that was being said around him,
and would often strike in with some most apposite observation, or laugh
at anything witty in a high tenor laugh, without looking up from his
book.
Commissionsrath Bosswinkel had been at school with Tussmann at the Grey
Friars, and from that period dated the intimate friendship which there
had always been between them. Tussmann saw Albertine grow up from
childhood; and, on her twelfth birthday, after presenting her with a
bouquet, the finest that money could procure from the first florist in
Berlin, kissed her hand for the first time with an amount of courtesy
and ceremonious deference which no one would have supposed him to be
capable of. Dating from that day there dawned in the breast of the
Commissionsrath an idea that it would be a very good thing if his old
schoolfellow were to marry Albertine. He wanted to get Albertine
married, and he thought this would be about the least troublesome way
of getting it done. Tussmann would be content with very little in the
shape of portion, and Bosswinkel hated bother of every kind, disliked
making new acquaintances, and, in his capacity of a Commissionsrath,
thought a great deal more of money than he ought to have done. On
Albertine's eighteenth birthday he propounded this scheme (which he had
previously kept to himself) to Tussmann.
The Clerk of the Privy Chancery was at first alarmed at the suggestion.
The idea of entering the matrimonial estate, particularly with so
youthful a lady, was more than he could quite see his way to. But he
got accustomed to it by degrees, and one day, when Albertine, at her
father's instigation, gave him a little purse, worked by her own hands
in the prettiest of colours (addressing him by his much-prized "title"
as she did so), his heart blazed up in a sudden flame of affection. He
told the Commissionsrath at once that he had made up his mind to marry
Albertine, and as Bosswinkel immediately embraced him in the character
of his son-in-law, he, very naturally, considered himself engaged to
her. There was still one little point in the matter of some importance,
namely, that the young lady herself had not heard a syllable about the
affair, and could not possibly have the very faintest inkling what was
going forward.
At an excessively early hour of the morning, after the strange
adventures which we have, in our first chapter, described as having
been met with by Tussmann at the foot of the Townhouse Tower, and in
the wineshop in Alexander Street, the said Clerk of the Privy Chancery
came bursting, pale and wild, with distorted features, into his friend
Bosswinkel's bedroom. The Commissionsrath was much alarmed and
exercised in his mind, for Tussmann had never come in upon him at such
an hour, and his manner and appearance clearly indicated that something
most remarkable had been happening.
"What, in the name of Heaven, is the matter with you?" Bosswinkel
cried. "Where have you been? What have you been up to? You look like I
don't know what!"
Tussmann threw himself feebly into an arm-chair, and it was not till he
had gasped for breath during several minutes that he was able to begin
to speak--which he did in a whimpering voice.
"Bosswinkel! here, as you see me, in these self-same clothes, with
'Thomasius on Diplomatic Acumen' in my pocket, I come straight here
from Spandau Street, where I have been running up and down, and
backwards and forwards, ever since the clock struck twelve last night.
I have not set a foot across my own doorstep, or seen the sight of a
bed, nor have I closed an eye the whole livelong night!"
And he told the Commissionsrath all that had happened to him from the
time when he first came across the mysterious and fabulous sort of
Goldsmith, till he had made his escape from the winehouse as fast as he
could, in his terror at the sorcery which was going on there.
"Tussmann, old fellow," said Bosswinkel, "I see what it is, you're not
accustomed to liquoring up. You go to your bed every night at eleven
o'clock, after a couple of glasses of beer, and last night you went and
took more liquor than was good for you, long after you ought to have
been asleep; no wonder you had a lot of funny dreams."
"What!" Tussmann cried; "you think I was asleep, do you, and dreaming?
Don't you know I'm pretty well up in the subject of sleep and dreams.
I'll prove to you out of Rudow's 'Theory of Sleep,' and explain to you,
what sleep really is, and that people can sleep without dreaming at
all; and as for what dreaming is, you will know as well as I do, if you
will read the 'Somnium Scipionis,' and Artimidorus's great work on
Dreams, and the Frankfort Dreambook; but, you see, you never read
_anything_ and that's why you are always making such a hash of
everything you have to do with."
"Now, my dear old man," the Commissionsrath replied, "don't you go and
get yourself into a state of excitement. I can see, easily enough, how
you may have allowed yourself to break out of bounds a bit last night,
and then have got somehow into company with a set of mountebanks, who
got the better of you when you had more liquor than you could carry;
but what I cannot make out is, why, in all the earth, when you had once
got out of the place, you didn't go straight home to your bed, like a
reasonable man? Whatever for did you go wandering about the streets?"
"Oh, Bosswinkel!" lamented Tussman, "my old friend! my chum at the Grey
Friars!--don't you go and insult me by base insinuations of that sort.
Let me tell you that the infernal, diabolical enchantment which was
practised upon me did not fairly commence till I got _into_ the street.
For, when I came to the Town-hall, every one of its windows was blazing
with light, and there was music playing inside--a brass band, playing
waltzes and so forth. How it came about I can't tell you; but, though
I'm not a particularly tall man, I found that I was able to reach up on
my tiptoes so that I could see in at the windows. And _what_ did I
see?--Oh, gracious powers of Heaven! _whom_ did I see? _Your daughter_,
Miss Albertine Bosswinkel, dressed as a bride, and waltzing like the
very deuce (if I may permit myself such an expression) with a young
gentleman! I thumped on the window; I cried out, 'Dearest Miss
Bosswinkel, what are you doing? What sort of goings-on are those, here,
at this time of the night?' But just as I was saying so, there came
some horrible beast of a fellow down King Street, pulled my legs away
from under me as he passed, and ran away from me, with them, in
peals of laughter. As for me, wretched Clerk of the Privy Chancery
that I am, I plumped down flat into the filthy mud of the gutter.
'Watchman!' I shouted, 'Police! patrol; guard, turn out! Come
here!--look sharp!--Stop the thief!--stop him!--he's got both my legs!'
But upstairs in the Town-hall everything had suddenly grown pitch-dark,
and my voice died away in the air. I was getting desperate, when the
man came back, and, as he flew by me like a mad creature, chucked my
legs back to me, throwing them right into my face. I then picked myself
up, as speedily as, in my state of discomfiture, I could, and ran to
Spandau Street. But when I got to my own door (with my latchkey in my
hand), there was _I_--_I_, myself, standing there already, staring at
_me_, with the same big black eyes which you see in my head at this
moment. Starting back in terror, I fell against a man, who seized me
with a strong grip of his arms. By the halbert he was carrying, I
thought he was the watchman; so I said, 'Dearest watchman!--worthy
man!--please to drive away that wraith of Clerk of the Privy Chancery
Tussmann from that door there, so that _I_, the _real_ Tussmann, may
get into my lodgings.' But the man growled out, 'Why, Tussmann! you're
surely out of your senses!' in a hollow voice; and I saw it wasn't the
watchman at all, but that terrible Goldsmith who had got me in his
arms. Drops of cold perspiration stood on my forehead. I said: 'Most
respected Herr Professor, pray do not take it ill that I should have
thought you were the watchman, in the dark. Oh, Heavens! call me
whatever you choose; call me in the most uncourteous manner 'Tussmann,'
without the faintest adumbration of a title at all; or even 'My dear
fellow!' I will overlook anything. Only rid me of this terrible
enchantment--as you can, if you choose. 'Tussmann!' he said, in that
awful hollow voice of his, 'nothing shall annoy you more, if you will
take your solemn oath, here where we stand, to give up all idea of
marrying Miss Albertine Bosswinkel.' Commissionsrath! you may fancy
what I felt when this atrocious proposition was made to me. I said:
'Dearest Herr Professor! you make my very heart bleed. Waltzing is a
horrible and improper thing; and Miss Albertine Bosswinkel was waltzing
upstairs there--in her wedding-dress as my bride into the bargain--with
some young gentleman or other (I don't know who he was), in a manner
that made my sight and my hearing abandon me, out and out. But still,
for all that, I cannot let that exquisite creature go. I must cleave to
her, whatever happens, come what will.' The words were scarcely out of
my mouth, when that awful, abominable Goldsmith gave me a sort of shove
which made me begin immediately to spin round and round, and, as if
impelled by some irresistible power, I went waltzing up and down
Spandau Street, with my arms clasped about a broom-handle--not a lady,
but a besom, which scratched my face. And all the time there were
invisible hands beating my back black and blue. More than that; all
round me, wherever I turned, the place was swarming with Tussmanns
waltzing with their arms round besoms. At last I fell down exhausted,
and lost my consciousness. When the light shone into my eyes in the
morning--oh, Bosswinkel, share my terror!--I found myself sitting up on
the horse of the Elector's statue, in front of him, with my head on his
cold, iron breast. Luckily the sentry must have been asleep, for I
managed to get down without being seen, at the risk of my life, and got
away. I ran to Spandau Street; but I got so terribly frightened again
that I was obliged to come on here to you."
"Now, now, old fellow!" Bosswinkel said, "do you think I'm going to
believe all this rubbish? Did ever anybody hear of magical phenomena of
this sort happening in our enlightened city of Berlin?"
"Now," said Tussmann, "don't you see what a quagmire of ignorance and
error the fact that you never _read_ anything plunges you into? If you
had read Hafftitz's Chronicon, you would have seen that much more
extraordinary things of the kind have happened here. Commissionsrath, I
go so far as to assert, and to feel quite convinced, that this
Goldsmith is the very Devil, in _propria persona_."
"Pooh, pooh!" said Bosswinkel, "I wish you wouldn't talk such nonsense.
Think a little. Of course, what happened was that you got screwed, and
then went and climbed up on to the Elector's statue."
The tears came to Tussmann's eyes as he strove to disabuse Bosswinkel's
mind of this idea; but Bosswinkel grew graver and graver, and at last
said:
"The more I think of it, the more I feel convinced that those people
you met with were old Manasseh, the Jew, and Leonhard, the goldsmith, a
very clever hand at juggling tricks, who comes every now and then to
Berlin. I haven't read as many books as you have, I know; but, for all
that, I know well enough that they are good honest fellows, and have no
more to do with black art than you or I have. I'm astonished that you,
with your knowledge of law, shouldn't be aware that superstition is
illegal, and forbidden under severe penalties; no practitioner of the
black art could get a licence from the Government to carry it on, under
any circumstances. Look here, Tussmann. I hope there is no foundation
for the idea which has come into my head. No! I can't believe that
you've changed your mind about marrying my daughter; that you are
screening yourself behind all sorts of incredible nonsense and stuff
which nobody can believe a word of; that you are going to say to me,
'Commissionsrath: You and I are men of the world, and I can't marry
your daughter, because, if I do, the Devil will bolt away with my legs
and beat me black and blue!' It would be too bad, Tussmann, if you were
to try on a trick of that sort upon me."
Tussmann could not find words to express his indignation at this notion
on the part of his old friend. He vowed, over and over again, that he
was most devotedly in love with Miss Albertine; that he would die for
her without the least hesitation, like a Leander or a Troilus, and that
the Devil might beat him black and blue, in his innocence, as a martyr,
rather than he should give Albertine up.
As he was making these asseverations, there was heard a loud knocking
at the door, and in came that old Manasseh of whom Bosswinkel had been
speaking.
As soon as Tussmann saw him he cried out: "Oh, gracious powers of
Heaven! That's the old Jew who made the gold pieces out of the radish,
and threw them in the Goldsmith's face! The dreadful Goldsmith will be
coming next, I suppose."
And he was making for the door. But Bosswinkel held him fast, saying:
"Wait till we see what happens." And, turning to the old Jew, he told
him what Tussmann had said about him and the events of the previous
night in the wineshop and in Alexander Place.
Manasseh looked at Tussmann with a malignant grin, and said: "I don't
know what the gentleman means. He came into the wineshop last night
with Leonhard, the goldsmith (where I happened to be taking a glass of
wine to refresh me after a quantity of hard work which had occupied me
till nearly midnight). The gentleman drank rather more than was good
for him: he couldn't keep on his legs, and went out to the street
staggering."
"Don't you see," Bosswinkel said, "this is what comes of that terrible
habit of liquoring up? You'll have to leave it off, I can assure you,
if you're going to be my son-in-law."
Tussmann, overwhelmed by this unmerited reproof, sank down into a chair
breathless, closed his eyes, and murmured something completely
unintelligible in whimpering accents.
"Of course," said Bosswinkel, "dissipating all night, and now done up
and wretched."
And, in spite of all his protestations, Tussmann had to submit to
Bosswinkel's wrapping a white handkerchief about his head, and sending
him home in a cab to Spandau Street.
"And what's _your_ news, Manasseh?" the Commissionsrath inquired.
Manasseh simpered most deferentially, and with much amiability, and
said Mr. Bosswinkel would scarcely be prepared for the news he had to
tell him, which was that that splendid young fellow, his nephew
Benjamin Dümmerl, worth close upon a million of money, had just been
created a baron on account of his remarkable merits, was recently come
back from Italy, and had fallen desperately in love with Miss
Albertine, to whom he intended to offer his hand.
We see this young. Baron Dümmerl continually in the theatres, where he
swaggers in a box of the first tier, and oftener still at concerts of
every description. So that we well know him to be tall, and as thin as
a broom-handle; that in his dusky yellow face, overshadowed by jetty
locks and whiskers, in his whole being, he is stamped with the most
distinctive and unmistakeable characteristics of the Oriental race to
which he belongs; that he dresses in the most extravagant style of
the very latest English fashion, speaks several languages, all in the
self-same twang (that of "our people"); scrapes on a violin, hammers on
the piano; is an art connoisseur without acknowledge of art, and would
fain play the part of a literary Mecænas; tries to be witty without
wit, and _spirituel_ without _esprit_; is stupidly forward, noisy, and
pushing. In short, to use the concise and descriptive expression of
that numerous class of individuals amongst whom his desire is to shove
himself, an insufferable snob and boor. When we add to all this that he
is avaricious and dirtily mean in everything that he does, it cannot be
otherwise than that even those less elevated souls that fall down and
worship wealth very soon leave him to himself.
When Manasseh mentioned this nephew, the thought of that approximation
to a million which "Benjie" possessed passed through the
Commissionsrath's mind; but along with that thought came the objection
which, in his opinion, made the idea of him as a son-in-law impossible.
"My good Manasseh, you are forgetting that your nephew belongs to the
old religion, and that----"
"Ho!" cried Manasseh, "what does _that_ matter? My nephew is in love
with your daughter, and wants to make her happy. A drop or two of water
more or less won't make much difference to him. He'll be the same man
still. You just think the matter over, Herr Commissionsrath; I shall
come back in a day or two with my little baron, and get your answer."
With which Manasseh took his departure.
Bosswinkel began to think over the affair at once, but, spite of his
boundless avarice and his utter absence of conscience or character, he
could not endure the idea of Albertine's marrying that disgusting
Benjamin, and in a sudden attack of rectitude he determined that he
would keep his word to Tussmann.
CHAPTER IV.
TREATS OF PORTRAITS, A GREEN FACE, JUMPING MICE,
AND ISRAELITISH CURSES.
Albertine, soon after she made Edmund's acquaintance, came to the
conclusion that the big oil portrait of her father which hung in her
room was a horribly bad likeness of him, and dreadfully scratched into
the bargain. She pointed out to her father that though it was so many
years since the portrait was painted, he was really looking much
younger, and better in every way, than the painter had represented him.
Also, she particularly disliked the gloomy, sulky expression of the
face, the old-fashioned clothes, and a preposterous bunch of flowers
which he was holding between his fingers in a delicate manner,
displaying in so doing certain handsome diamond rings.
She talked so much, and so long, on this subject, that at last her
father himself saw that the portrait was horrible, and couldn't
understand how the painter had managed to turn out such a caricature of
his well-looking person. And the more he thought the matter over and
looked at the picture, the more he was convinced that it was an
execrable daub. He determined to take it down, and stow it away in the
lumber room.
Albertine said that was the best thing that could be done, but that,
all the same, she was accustomed to see dear papa's picture in her
room, that the bare space on the wall would be such a blank to her that
she should never feel comfortable; so that the only course was for dear
papa to have _another_ portrait painted, by some painter who knew what
he was about, and that _she_ could think of nobody but Edmund Lehsen,
so celebrated for his admirable portraits.
"My dear," the Commissionsrath said, "you don't know what you're
talking about. Those young painters are so full of conceit, they don't
know where to turn themselves, don't care how much they ask for those
bits of scumblings of theirs, won't think of anything under gold
Fredericks."
But Albertine declared that Edmund Lehsen painted for the love of the
thing much more than for money, and would be sure to charge very
little. And she kept on at her father so assiduously, that at last he
agreed to go to Edmund Lehsen, and see what he would say about a
portrait.
We can imagine the delight with which Edmund expressed his readiness to
undertake the Commissionsrath's portrait; and his delight became
rapture when he heard that it was Albertine who put the idea in her
father's head. He saw, of course, that her notion was that this would
give him opportunities of seeing her. So that it was a matter of course
that when the Commissionsrath asked, rather anxiously, about the price,
Edmund said that the honour of being admitted, for the sake of Art, to
the house and society of a gentleman such as he, was more than
sufficient remuneration for any little effort of his.
"Good Heavens! Can I believe my ears?" the Commissionsrath cried. "No
money, dearest Mr. Lehsen? No gold Fredericks for your trouble? Not
even the expense of your paints and canvas?"
Edmund laughingly said all that was too insignificant to be taken into
account.
"But," Bosswinkel said, "I'm afraid you don't know that I'm thinking of
having a three-quarters length life-size."
"It doesn't matter in the slightest," the painter answered.
The Commissionsrath pressed him warmly to his heart, and cried, while
tears of joy rose to his eyes, "Oh, heavenly powers! Are there human
souls of this degree of disinterestedness in this world which lieth in
wickedness? First his cigars, and now this picture. Marvellous man!--or
'youth' I ought to say. Dear Mr. Lehsen, within your soul dwell those
virtues, and that true German singleness of heart, which one reads of
more than enough, but which are rare in these times of ours. But let me
tell you, though I am a Commissionsrath, and dress in French fashions,
I am quite of the same way of thinking as yourself. I can appreciate
your large-mindedness, and am as unselfish, and as free with my money,
as anybody in the land."
Crafty Miss Albertine had, of course, known exactly how Edmund would
proceed with her father's commission, and her object was attained.
Bosswinkel overflowed with laudation of this grand young fellow, so
entirely free from the least trace of that greediness which is such a
hateful quality in a man. And he ended by saying that young people,
especially the artistic, always have a turn for the romantic, and set
great store by withered flowers and the ribbons which some beloved girl
has worn, and go out of themselves altogether over any piece of work
done by the hands of those divinities; so that Albertine had better
knit a little purse for Edmund, and, if she saw no particular
objection, even put into it a little lock of her bonny nut-brown hair,
and thus get out of any little obligation they might be thought to be
under to him. To do this she had his full permission, and he undertook
to answer to Tussmann on the subject. Albertine, who was not yet taken
into her father's confidence as to his projects, had not the remotest
notion what Tussmann might have to say to the matter, and did not take
the trouble to inquire.
That very evening Edmund had his painting gear taken to Bosswinkel's
house, and the next morning he made his appearance there for the first
sitting.
He begged the Commissionsrath to think of the very happiest moment of
his life. For instance, when his dead wife first said she loved him, or
when Albertine was born, or when he unexpectedly saw some dear friend
whom he had thought to be lost to him; and to try and look as he had
done _then_.
"Wait a moment, Mr. Lehsen," said Bosswinkel; "I know what to do. One
day, about three months ago, I got a letter from Hamburg telling me I
had drawn a big prize in the lottery. I ran to my daughter with the
letter open in my hand. That was the happiest moment I ever had in all
my life. Let's choose _that_ one; and, just to place the whole thing
more vividly before your eyes--and mine--I'll go and get the letter,
and be taken with it in my hand--just as I was when it came."
So Edmund had no help but to paint Bosswinkel accordingly; and he
wouldn't be content, either, unless the writing on the letter was
rendered legibly and distinctly, word for word, as follows:--
"Honoured Sir,
"I have the honour to inform you----"
and so forth; moreover, the envelope had to be portrayed lying on a
little table, so that the address on it, displaying all the
Commissionsrath's official titles written out at full length, could be
clearly read. The very postmark Edmund had to copy with the utmost
minuteness.
For the rest, he made a portrait of a well-looking, good-tempered,
handsomely-dressed man, who _did_ display, in some of the features of
his face, a more or less distant resemblance to the Commissionsrath; so
that nobody who read what was on the envelope could make any mistake as
to whom the portrait was intended for.
The Commissionsrath was delighted with it. "There," he said; "there you
see what a painter who knows his business can make of a more or less
well-looking fellow, though he _may_ be getting a little on in years! I
begin to understand now (I didn't before), a thing that the Professor
in the Humanity Class used to say, that a proper portrait ought to be a
regular historical picture. Whenever I look at that one, I remember
that delicious and happy moment when the news came of my prize in the
lottery, and I understand the meaning of that smile on my face--that
reflection of the happiness I felt within me then."
Before Albertine could carry out the plans which she had formed in her
mind, her father took the initiative by begging Edmund to paint _her_,
as well. Edmund begun this work at once; but he did not find it so easy
to satisfy himself with her portrait as with her father's. He put in a
most careful outline, and then rubbed it out again; outlined once
more--carefully--begun to lay on some colour, and then threw the whole
thing aside; commenced again; altered the pose. There was always either
too much light in the room, or not enough. The Commissionsrath, who had
always been present at those sittings at first, got tired presently,
and betook himself elsewhere.
Upon this, Edmund came forenoon and afternoon, and if the picture did
not make much progress, the love-affair made a great deal, and entwined
itself more and more firmly. I have no doubt, dear reader, that your
own experience has shown you that when one is in love, and wants to
give to all the fond, longing words and wishes, which one has got to
express, their due and proper effect, so that they may go to the
listener's very heart, it is a matter of absolute necessity that one
should take hold of the hand of the beloved object, press it, and kiss
it; upon which, as by the operation of some sudden development of
electrical force, lip goes into contact with lip; and the electricity
(if that is what we are to call it), arrives at a condition of
equilibrium by means of a fire-stream of sweetest kisses. Thus Edmund
was very often obliged to stop painting, and not only that, but he had
very frequently to get down from the scaffold upon which he and his
easel were placed.
Thus it came about that, one forenoon, he was standing with Albertine
at the window, where the white curtains were drawn, and (on the
principle we have been explaining), in order to give more force to what
he was saying to her, was holding her in his arms, and kissing her
hand.
At this particular hour and moment, Mr. Tussmann, Clerk of the Privy
Chancery, happened to be passing Bosswinkel's house, with the 'Treatise
on Diplomatic Acumen,' and sundry tractates and pamphlets (in which
the useful and the entertaining were combined in due measure) in his
pockets. And although he was bounding along as fast as ever he
could--according to his manner--because the clock was just on the very
stroke of the hour at which he used always to enter his office, still
he drew up for a moment, in order to cast a sentimental glance up at
the window of his love.
There he saw, as in a cloud, Albertine with Edmund; and, although he
could not make out anything at all distinctly, his heart throbbed, he
knew not why. Some strange sense of anxious alarm impelled him to
undertake things previously unattempted, undreamt of, namely, to go
upstairs to Albertine's rooms, at this totally unprecedented hour of
the day.
As he entered, Albertine was saying, quite distinctly:
"Oh, yes, Edmund! I must always--always love you!" And she pressed
Edmund to her heart, whilst a whole battery of "restoration of
electrical equilibrium" began to go off, rushing and sparkling.
The Clerk of the Privy Chancery walked mechanically forward into the
room, and then stood, dumb and speechless, like a man in a cataleptic
fit. In the height of their blissfulness the two lovers had not heard
the elephantine tread of Tussmann's peculiar boot-like shoes, nor his
opening of the door, nor his coming in, and striding into the middle of
the room.
He now squeaked out, in his high falsetto:
"But--Miss Albertine Bosswinkel!----"
Edmund and Albertine fled apart like lightning--he to his easel, she to
the chair where she was supposed to be sitting for her portrait.
Tussmann, after a short pause, during which he tried to get back his
breath, resumed, saying--
"But, Miss Albertine Bosswinkel, what are you doing? What are you
after? First of all, you go and waltz with this young gentleman (I
haven't the honour of his acquaintance), in the Town-hall at twelve
o'clock at night, in a way that made me, your husband that is to be,
almost lose the faculties of seeing and hearing; and now--here--in
broad daylight, behind those curtains--Oh! Good gracious!--is this a
way for an engaged young lady to go on?"
"Who's an engaged young lady?" Albertine cried out, in immense
indignation. "Whom are you talking about, Mr. Tussmann? Tell me, if you
will be so kind."
"Oh, thou, my Creator," cried Tussmann, in the fulness of his heart.
"You ask, dearest Miss Albertine, who is an engaged young lady, and of
whom I am talking? To whom else can I be alluding but to yourself? Are
you not my future bride, whom I have so long adored in secret? Did not
your dear papa ever so long ago promise me your beautiful, white, _so_
kissable little hand?"
"Mr. Tussmann," said Albertine; "either you have been to a wineshop,
early as it is in the day--(my father says you go to them a great deal
more than you ought),--or you've gone out of your mind in some
extraordinary way. My father can never have had the slightest idea of
_your_ marrying _me_."
"Dearest Miss Albertine," cried Tussmann; "consider for a moment. You
have known me for many long years. Have I not always been a man of the
strictest moderation and temperance? Have I ever been given to
dissipation? Can you suppose that I have taken to drinking and improper
conduct all at once? Dearest Miss Albertine, I shall be only too happy
to close my eyes to what I have seen going on here; not a syllable
concerning it shall ever pass my lips--we'll forget and forgive. But
remember, adored one, that you promised to marry me out of the tower
window of the Town-hall at twelve o'clock at night; and, although you
were waltzing in such a style with this young gentleman (whose
acquaintance, as I said, I have not the honour of), still I----"
"Don't you see?" interrupted Albertine; "don't you know, that you're
talking all sorts of incoherent nonsense, like some lunatic out of the
asylum? Please go away. I feel quite unwell; do go away, for goodness'
sake."
Tears started in Tussmann's eyes.
"Oh, heavens!" he cried. "Treatment like this from the beloved Miss
Albertine! No; I shall not go. I shall remain here till you have
arrived at a truer opinion concerning my unworthy person, dearest Miss
Albertine."
"Go; go!" reiterated Albertine, running into a corner of the room, and
covering her face with her handkerchief.
"No, dearest Miss Albertine," answered Tussmann; "I shall not go
until, in compliance with the sapient advice of Thomasius, I endeavour
to----" and he made as if he would follow her into the corner.
While this was going on, Edmund had been scumbling angrily at the
background of his picture. But at this point he could contain himself
no longer.
"Damned, infernal scoundrel!" he cried, and flew at Tussmann, making
four dashes over his face with the brush, full of a greyish green tint,
which he had been working at his background with. Then he grasped him,
opened the door, and sent him out of it with a kick so forcible that he
went flying down stairs like an arrow out of a bow.
Bosswinkel, who was just coming up, started back in much alarm as this
school-chum of his came bumping into his arms.
"What in the name of all that's----" he cried; "what's going on? what
ails your face?" Tussmann, almost out of his mind, related all that had
happened, in broken phrases; how Albertine had behaved to him--how
Edmund had treated him. The Commissionsrath, brimful of rage and fury,
took Tussmann by the hand and led him back to the room.
"What's all this?" he cried to Albertine. "This is very pretty
behaviour; is this the way you treat your husband that is to be?"
"My husband that is to be?" echoed Albertine, in wild amazement.
"Most undoubtedly!" the Commissionsrath answered. "I don't know why you
should pretend to be in a state of mind about a matter which has been
understood and arranged for such a long time. My dear old friend
Tussmann is your affianced husband, and the wedding will come off in a
week or two."
"_Never!_" said Albertine. "Never will I marry him. Good heavens! how
could anybody have _that_ old creature; nobody could ever bear him."
"I don't know about 'bearing' him, or whether he's an 'old creature' or
not," said her father. "What you have got to do is to marry him.
Certainly my friend Tussmann is not one of your giddy young fools. Like
myself, he has reached those years of discretion when a man is, very
properly, considered to be at his best; and into the bargain, he is a
fine, upright, straightforward, honourable fellow, most profoundly
learned, perfectly eligible, in every way, and my old schoolfellow."
"No!" cried Albertine, in the utmost agitation, with the tears starting
to her eyes. "I can't endure him. He's insupportable to me. I hate him!
I abhor him! Oh, Edmund!"
She sank, almost fainting, into Edmund's arms; and he pressed her to
his heart with the warmest affection.
The Commissionsrath, utterly amazed, opened his eyes as wide as if he
were seeing spectres, and then cried--"What's all this? what do I see?"
"Ah, yes! yes, indeed!" Tussmann said, in a lamentable tone. "It
appears, unfortunately, to be the fact that Miss Albertine doesn't care
to have anything to do with me, and seems to cherish a remarkable
partiality for this young gentleman--this painter (whose acquaintance I
have not the honour of, by the way)--inasmuch as she kisses him without
the slightest hesitation or shyness, though she will scarcely give
wretched _me_ her hand. And yet I hope to place the ring on her lovely
finger very shortly indeed."
"Come away from one another, you two," the Commissionsrath cried out,
and forced Albertine out of Edmund's arms. But Edmund shouted that he
would never give her up, if it cost him his life.
"Indeed, sir!" said the Commissionsrath, with scathing irony. "Nice
business, upon my word! A fine little love-affair going on behind my
back here! Excessively pretty! Very nice indeed, my young Mr. Lehsen!
This is the meaning of your liberality--your cigars and your pictures.
He comes sliding into my house--leads my daughter into all this sort of
thing. A charming idea, that I should go and hang her round the neck of
a miserable beggar of a dauber, without a rap to bless himself with!"
Beyond himself with anger, Edmund had his mahlstick raised in the act
to strike, when the voice of Leonhard was heard crying, in tones of
thunder, as he burst in at the door--
"Stop, Edmund! don't be in a hurry. Bosswinkel is a terrible ass; he'll
think better of it presently."
The Commissionsrath had run into a corner, frightened by the unexpected
arrival of Leonhard; and, from that corner, he cried--"I really do not
know, Mr. Leonhard, what business you have to----"
But Tussmann had hidden himself behind the sofa as soon as he saw
Leonhard come in. He was crouching down there, and chirping out, in a
voice of terror--"Gracious powers! take care, Commissionsrath! Hold
your tongue; don't say a word, dearest schoolfellow. Good God! here's
the Herr Professor come, the Ball-Entrepreneur of Spandau Street."
"Come along out, Tussmann," said the Goldsmith, laughing; "Don't be
frightened, nothing's going to happen to you. You've been punished
enough already for that foolish idea you had of wanting to marry. That
poor face of yours is going to be green all the rest of the days of
your life."
"Oh Lord!" cried the Clerk of the Privy Chancery, almost out of his
mind, "my face green for ever and ever! What will people say? What will
His Excellency, the minister, say? His Excellency will think I have had
my face painted green from motives of mere worldly vanity! Ah! it's all
over with me. I shall be suspended from my official functions. The
Government will never hear of such a thing as a Clerk of the Privy
Chancery with a green face. Wretched man that I am; what's to become of
me?"
"Come, come, Tussmann!" the Goldsmith said; "don't make such a fuss. I
have no doubt there's hope for you yet, if you pull yourself together,
and get rid of this idiotic notion of marrying Miss Bosswinkel."
In answer to this, Tussmann and Bosswinkel cried out together, in what
is termed on the lyric stage "_ensemble_"--
"I can't."
"He shan't."
The Goldsmith fixed his sparkling, penetrating eyes on the two of them;
but just as he was going to burst out at them, the door opened, and in
came Manasseh, with his nephew, Baron Benjamin Dümmerl, from Vienna.
"Benjie" went straight up to Albertine--who had never seen him in her
life before--and said, in a disagreeable, drawling tone, as he took her
hand--
"I have come here in person, dear Miss Bosswinkel, to lay myself at
your feet. Of course you know that is a mere _façon de parler_. Baron
Dümmerl doesn't really lay himself at anybody's feet, not even at the
Emperor's. What I mean is--let me have a kiss."
So saying, he went nearer to Albertine, and bent down towards her.
But, at that moment, a something happened which neither he nor anybody
else--except the Goldsmith--anticipated, and which caused them all much
alarm. Benjie's rather sizeable nose suddenly shot forward to such a
length that, passing beyond Albertine's face, it struck the opposite
wall of the room with a tremendous, resounding bang. He started back a
step or two, and his nose at once drew in to its ordinary dimensions.
He approached Albertine again, with exactly the same result. To make a
long tale short, his nose kept on shooting in and out like a trombone.
"Cursed necromancer!" Manasseh roared; and took a thin cord, fastened
in a sort of knot, out of his pocket, which he threw to the
Commissionsrath, crying--"Throw that about the brute's neck--the
Goldsmith, I mean--and then drag him out of the room. Never mind about
ceremony. Do as I tell you. All will be right then."
The Commissionsrath took hold of the noose, but instead of throwing it
about the Goldsmith's neck, he threw it over the Jew's; and immediately
he and the Jew began flying up to the ceiling and then down again. And
so they went on, shooting up and down, while Benjie carried on his
nose-concerto, and Tussmann laughed like a mad creature, till the
Commissionsrath fell down nearly fainting in an arm-chair.
"Now's the time! now's the time!" Manasseh cried. He slapped his
pocket, and out sprung an enormous, horrible-looking mouse, which made
a spring right at the Goldsmith. But as it was jumping at him, the
Goldsmith transfixed it with a sharp needle of gold, upon which it gave
a yell, and disappeared, none knew whither.
Then Manasseh clenched his fists at the fainting Commissionsrath, and
cried, with rage and hatred blazing in his face--
"Ha! Melchior Bosswinkel! thou hast conspired against me. Thou art in
league with this accursed sorcerer, whom thou hast brought into thine
house. But cursed, cursed shalt thou be. Thou and all thy race shall be
swept away like the helpless brood of a bird. The grass shall grow on
thy doorstep, and all that thou settest thy hand to shall be as the
dream of the famishing, who sates himself, in dreams, with savoury
food. And the D[=a]-l[ve]s shall take up his dwelling in thine house,
and consume thy substance. And thou shalt beg thy bread, in rags,
before the doors of the despised people of God; and they shall drive
thee away like a mangy cur, and thou shalt be cast to the earth like a
rotten branch. And instead of the sound of the harp, moths shall be thy
fellows, and dogs shall make a divan of the tomb of thy mother!
Curses!--curses!--curses upon thee! Commissionsrath Melchior
Bosswinkel!"
And, having thus delivered himself, this raging Manasseh seized hold of
his nephew, and went storming out of the house with him.
Albertine, in her terror and horror, had taken refuge with Edmund,
hiding her face on his breast; and he held her closely to him, though
he had difficulty in mastering his own emotion. But the Goldsmith went
up to those two, and said, with a smile, and in a gentle voice:
"Don't you be put out in the slightest by all this business: everything
will come right. I give you my word for it. But, just now, you must bid
each other good-bye, before Tussmann and Bosswinkel come back to their
senses."
And he and Edmund left Bosswinkel's house.
CHAPTER V.
WHEREIN THE READER LEARNS WHAT THE D[=A]-L[vE]S IS: ALSO HOW THE
GOLDSMITH SAVES THE CLERK OF THE PRIVY CHANCERY FROM A MISERABLE
DEATH, AND CONSOLES THE DESPAIRING COMMISSIONSRATH.
Bosswinkel was utterly shaken; more by Manasseh's curse than by
the wild piece of spookery which, as he saw, the Goldsmith had been
carrying on. And indeed it was a terrible curse, for it set the
D[=a]-l[ve]s on to him.
Dear reader, I don't know if you are aware what the D[=a]-l[ve]s of the
Jews is.
One of the Talmudists says that the wife of a certain poor Jew, one day
on coming into her house, found a weazened, emaciated, naked stranger
there, who begged her to give him the shelter of her roof, and food and
drink. Being afraid, she went to her husband, and told him, in tones of
complaint: "A naked, starving man has come in, asking for food and
shelter. How are we to help him, when it is all we can do to keep body
and soul together ourselves?" The husband said: "I will go to this
stranger, and see how I can get him out of the house."
"Why," he said to him, "hast thou come hither, I being so poor and
unable to help thee? Begone! Betake thee to the house of Riches, where
the cattle are fat, and the guests bidden to the feast!"
"How," said the stranger, "canst thou drive me from this shelter which
I have found? Thou seest that I am bare and naked: how can I go to the
house of Riches? Have clothing made for me that shall be fitting, and I
will leave thee." "Better," thought the master of the house, "better
were it for me to spend all I possess in getting rid of him, than that
he should stay, and consume whatever I earn in the time to come, as
well." So he killed his last calf, on which he and his wife had thought
to live for many days; sold the meat, and with the price provided good
clothing for the stranger. But when he took the clothing to him,
behold! the stranger, who had before been lean, and short of stature,
was become tall and stout, so that the clothing was everywhere too
short for him and too narrow. At this the poor Jew was much afraid. But
the stranger said: "Give up the foolish idea of getting me out of thy
house. Know that I am the D[=a]-l[ve]s!" At this the poor Jew wrung his
hands and lamented, crying: "God of my fathers! I am scourged with the
rod of Thine anger, and poverty-smitten for ever and ever! For if thou
art the D[=a]-l[ve]s, thou wilt never leave us, but consume all that we
have, and always grow bigger and stronger. For the D[=a]-l[ve]s is
Poverty; which, when once it takes up its abode in a house, never
departs from it, but ever increases more and more."
If, then, the Commissionsrath was terrified that Manasseh, by his
curse, had brought poverty into his house, on the other hand, he stood
in the utmost dread of Leonhard, who, to say nothing of the
extraordinary magical powers at his command, had a certain something
about him which created a decided sense of awe. The Commissionsrath
could not but feel that there was nothing (with respect to the two of
them) which one could "do;" and thus the full brunt of his anger was
discharged upon Edmund Lehsen, upon whom he laid all the blame of all
the "unpleasantness" which had come about. Over and above all this,
Albertine came to the front, and declared, of her own motion, having
evidently completely made up her mind on the subject--declared, we say,
with the utmost distinctness, that she loved Edmund more than words
could express, and would never marry either that insufferable and
unendurable old pedant of a Tussmann, or that equally not-to-be-heard-of
beast of a Baron Benjamin. So that the Commissionsrath got into the
most tremendous rage imaginable, and wished Edmund at (ahem!) Hong
Kong, or Jericho, or, to speak idiomatically, "where the pepper grows."
But inasmuch as he could not carry this wish into effect, as the late
French Government did (which actually _did_ send objectionable persons
to the place "where the pepper grows"), he had to be content with
writing Edmund a nice little note, into which he poured all the gall
and venom which was in him at the time (and that was not a little), and
which ended by telling him that if ever he crossed his, the
Commissionsrath's, threshold again, he had better--look out for
squalls.
Of course we all know the state of inconsolable despair in which
Leonhard found Edmund, when he went to see him, at the fall of the
twilight, according to his wont.
"What have _I_ to thank you for?" Edmund cried, indignantly. "Of what
service have your protection and all your efforts been to _me_? Your
attempts to send this cursed rival of mine out of my way--what has been
the result of them? Those damnable conjuring tricks of yours--all
that _they_ have done has been to send everybody into a state of
higgledy-piggledy, where nobody knows what to think of anything! Even
that darling girl of mine is in the same boat with all the rest of them.
It's just this stupid, nonsensical bosh of yours--that, and nothing
else,--which is blocking up _my_ way, and so I tell you. Oh Lord! the
only thing which I can see that I can do is to be off to Rome at once,
and, I can assure you, I mean to do it, too."
"Just so," the Goldsmith said: "that is exactly what I want you to do.
Be good enough to remember what I said to you when you first told me
you were in love with Albertine. I said my idea was that a young artist
was right to be in love, but that he should not go and marry, all at
once, because that was most inadvisable. When I said that to you, I
brought to your mind, half in jest, the case of Sternbald; but now I
tell you, in the utmost seriousness, that, if you really wish to become
a great painter, you must put all ideas of marrying out of your head.
Go you away, free and glad, into the Father-land of Art; study, in the
most enthusiastic manner that ever you can, the inner-being of that
world of Art; and then, and only then, will the technical and practical
skill (which you might pick up here) be of the slightest real use to
you."
"Good gracious!" Edmund cried, "what an idiot I was to say anything to
you about my love affairs. I see, now, that it was you--you, on whom I
relied for advice and help in them--who have been purposely throwing
difficulties in the way, playing Old Harry with my most special heart's
desires, out of mere nastiness and unkindness."
"My good young sir!" the Goldsmith said, "just be good enough to keep a
rather quieter tongue in your head. Don't be quite so forcible in your
expressions. Please to remember that you have got one or two things to
learn, still, before you can quite see through _me_. _I_ can excuse
you, of course. I know very well what has upset your temper. This
insane spooniness of yours."
"As regards Art," Edmund said, "I really can't see why I should not go
to Rome and study, though I do stand in this intimate relation with
Albertine. You say yourself that I have a certain amount of 'turn' for
painting, and some practical skill, already. What I was thinking of
was, that, as soon as I was quite sure that Albertine would be mine,
one day, I should be off to Italy; spend a year there, and then come
back to my darling girl, having some real knowledge of my work."
"What, Edmund?" the Goldsmith cried; "was this really your idea,
arrived at after proper consideration?"
"Yes," Edmund answered: "deeply as I love Albertine, my heart burns for
that grand country which is the home of my Art."
"Will you give me your sacred word," the Goldsmith asked, "that if you
are sure that Albertine is yours you will be off at once to Italy?"
"Why shouldn't I?" Edmund replied, "inasmuch as it is my firm
determination to do so? It always has been so, and would be so--if she
were to be mine (I have my doubts as to whether she over will or not").
"Well, Edmund," the Goldsmith said, "be of good courage. This firm
resolve of yours has gained you your sweetheart. I give you my word of
honour that in a very few days Albertine will be your affianced wife.
And you know well enough that you need have no doubt as to my having
the power to keep my word."
Joy and rapture beamed from Edmund's eyes; and the mysterious Goldsmith
went quickly away, leaving him to all the sweet hopes and dreams which
had been awakened in his heart.
In an out-of-the-way corner of the Thiergarten, under a shady tree, the
Clerk of the Privy Chancery, Mr. Tussmann, was lying "like a dropped
acorn," as Celia, in 'As You Like It,' expresses it, or like a wounded
knight, pouring forth his heart's complainings to the perfidious autumn
breeze.
"Oh, God of justice!" he lamented. "Unhappy, pitiable Clerk of the
Privy Chancery that you are! how did you ever come to deserve all the
misery which has fallen to your share? Thomasius says that the estate
of matrimony in no wise hinders the acquisition of wisdom. And yet,
though you have only been _thinking_ of entering into that estate, you
have nearly lost that proportion of understanding (and it was not so
very small, neither,) which originally fell to your share. Whence comes
the aversion which dear Miss Bosswinkel displays towards your--not
particularly striking, but still, fairly well endowed--personality? Are
you a politician, who ought not to take a wife (as some have laid
down), or an expert in the laws, who (according to Cleobolus) ought to
give his wife a licking if she misbehaves herself? Am I either of
those, that this beautiful creature should be warranted in entertaining
some certain quantum of bashful repugnance to me? Why, oh, why, dearest
Clerk of the Privy Chancery, Tussmann, must you go and get mixed up
with a lot of horrible wizards, and raging painters, who took your face
for a stretched canvas, and painted a Salvator Rosa picture on it
without saying with your leave or by your leave? Aye! that's the worst
of the business! I put all my trust in my friend, Herr Seccius, whose
knowledge of chemistry is so extensive and so profound, and who can
help people out of every difficulty. But all in vain! The more I rub my
face with the liquid he gave me, the greener I get! though the green
does take on the most extraordinary variety of different tints and
shades that anybody could imagine. My face has been a face of spring,
of summer, and of autumn. Ah, yes! it's this greenness which is driving
me to my destruction. And if I don't attain to the whiteness of winter
(the proper colour for me), I shall run desperate, pitch myself into
this frog-pond here, and die a green death!"
It was no wonder that Tussmann complained most bitterly, for the colour
of his countenance was a very great annoyance to him. It was not like
any ordinary oil-colour, but as if it were some cleverly compounded
tincture or dye, sunk into his skin, and not to be obliterated by any
human means. In the day-time the poor wretch dared not go about except
with his hat down over his eyes, and a pocket-handkerchief before his
face. And even when night came on he could only venture to go flitting
through the more out-of-the-way streets at a gallop. He dreaded the
street-boys, and he also was afraid that he might come across somebody
belonging to his office, as he had reported himself sick.
We often feel any trouble that has befallen us more keenly in the
silent hours of night than during the more stirring daylight. And
so--as the clouds rolled blacker and blacker over the sky, as the
shadows of the trees fell deeper, and the autumn wind soughed louder
and louder through the branches--Tussmann, as he pondered over all his
wretchedness, got into a state of the profoundest despair.
The terrible idea of jumping into the green frog-pond, and so
terminating a baffled career, assailed his mind so irresistibly that he
looked on it as an unmistakable hint of destiny, which he was bound to
obey.
"Yes!" he cried, getting up from the grass, where he had been lying;
"yes!" he shouted; "it's all over with you, Clerk of the Privy
Chancery! Despair and die, good Tussmann; Thomasius can't help you! On,
to a green death! Farewell, terrible Miss Albertine Bosswinkel! Your
husband, that was to have been--whom you despised so cruelly--you will
never see again! Here he goes, into the frog-pond!"
Like a mad creature he rushed to the edge of the basin (in the darkness
it looked like a fine, smooth, broad road, with trees on each side of
it), and there he remained standing for a time.
Doubtless the notion of the nearness of death affected his mind; for he
sang, in a high-pitched, penetrating voice, that Scotch song, which has
the refrain--
"Green grow the rashes, oh!
Green grow the rashes!"
And he shied the 'Diplomatic Acumen,' and the 'Handbook for Court and
City,' and also 'Hufeland, on the Art of Prolonging Life,' into the
water, and was in the very act of jumping after them, when he felt
himself seized from behind by a pair of powerful arms.
He at once recognized the well-known voice of the necromantic
Goldsmith. It said--"Tussmann, what are you after? I beg you not to
make an ass of yourself; don't go playing idiotic tricks of this sort."
Tussmann strove with all his might to get out of the Goldsmith's grasp,
while, scarcely capable of utterance, he croaked out--
"Herr Professor! I am in a state of desperation, and all ordinary
considerations are in abeyance. Herr Professor, I sincerely trust
you will not take it ill if a Clerk of the Privy Chancery, who is
(as we have said) in a state of desperation, and who (in ordinary
circumstances) is well versed in the _convenances_ of official
etiquette--I say, I hope you won't take it ill, Herr Professor, if I
assert, openly and unceremoniously, that (under all the circumstances
of the case) I wish to heaven that you and all your magic tricks were
at the devil! along with your unendurable familiarity, your 'Tussmann!
Tussmann!' never giving me my official title!----there!"
The Goldsmith let him go, and he tumbled down, exhausted, in the long,
wet grass.
Believing himself to be in the basin, he cried out, "Oh, cold death!
oh, green rashes! oh, meadows! I bid ye farewell. I leave you my
kindest wishes, dearest Miss Albertine Bosswinkel. Commissionsrath,
good-bye! The unfortunate 'intended' is lying amongst the frogs that
praise God in the summer time."
"Tussmann," cried the Goldsmith, in a powerful voice, "don't you see
that you're out of your senses, and worn out and wretched into the
bargain? You want to send me to the devil! What if I _were_ the Devil,
and should set to and twist that neck of yours, here on this spot,
where you think you're lying in the water?"
Tussmann sighed, groaned, and shuddered as if in the most violent ague.
"But I mean you kindly, Tussmann," the Goldsmith said; "and your
desperate condition excuses everything. Get up, and come along with
me." And he helped him to get on his legs.
Tussmann, completely exhausted, said, in a whisper--
"I am completely in your power, most honoured Herr Professor. Do what
you will with my miserable body; but I most humbly beg you to spare my
immortal soul."
"Do not talk such absurd nonsense," the Goldsmith said, "but come along
with me as fast as you can." He took hold of Tussmann by the arm, and
led him away. But when they came to where the walk which leads to the
Zelten crosses at right angles, he pulled up, and said--
"Wait a moment, Tussmann. You're wet through, and look like I don't
know what. Just let me wipe your face, at all events."
The Goldsmith took a handkerchief of dazzling whiteness out of his
pocket, and wiped Tussmann's face with it.
The bright lights of the Weberschen Zelt were visible, shining brightly
through the trees. Tussmann cried out, in alarm--
"For God's sake, Herr Professor, where are you taking me? Not into
town? not to my own lodgings? not (oh, heavens!) into society, amongst
my fellow-men? Good heavens! I can't be seen. Wherever I go I give rise
to unpleasantness--create a _scandalum_."
"Tussmann," said the Goldsmith, "I cannot understand that ridiculous
shyness of yours. What do you mean by it? Don't be an ass. What you
want is a drop of something pretty strong. I should say a tumbler of
hot punch, else we shall be having you laid up with a feverish cold.
Come on!"
Tussmann kept on lamenting as to his greenness, and his Salvator Rosa
face; but the Goldsmith paid not the slightest attention to him, merely
hurrying him along with him at a rapid rate.
When they got into the brightly lighted coffee-room, Tussmann hid his
face in his handkerchief, as there were still some people there.
"What's the matter with you, Tussmann?" the Goldsmith asked. "Why do
you keep hiding that good-looking face of yours, eh?"
"Oh, dearest Herr Professor, you know all about this awful face of
mine," Tussmann answered. "You know how that terrible, passionate
painter young gentleman went and daubed it all over with green paint?"
"Nonsense," said the Goldsmith, taking the Clerk of the Privy Chancery
by the shoulders and placing him right in front of the big mirror
at the top of the room, while he threw a strong light on to him
from a branched candlestick which he had taken up. Tussmann forced
himself--much against the grain--to look. He could not restrain a loud
cry of "Gracious heavens!"
For not only had the terrible green tint of his face disappeared, but
he had a much more beautiful complexion than he ever had had in his
life, and was looking several years younger. In the excess of his
delight he jumped up and down with both feet together, and cried, in a
voice of sweet emotion--"Oh, just Heaven! what do I see? what do I
contemplate? Most honoured Herr Professor, I have no doubt that it is
to you that I am indebted for this great happiness!--to you alone! Ah!
now I feel little doubt that Miss Albertine Bosswinkel--for whose dear
sake I was so very nearly jumping into the frog-pond--won't make much
difficulty about accepting me. Really, dearest Professor, you have
rescued me from the very profoundest depths of misery. There is no
doubt that I did feel a certain sense of relief and well-being when you
were so kind as to pass that snow-white handkerchief of yours over my
face. You really were my benefactor, were you not?"
"I won't deny, Tussmann," the Goldsmith answered, "that I wiped the
green colour away from your face; and, from that, you may gather that I
am not by any means so much your enemy as you have supposed me to be.
What I can't bear to think of is this ridiculous notion of yours (which
you have allowed the Commissionsrath to put in your head) that you are
going to go and marry a splendid young creature, bursting with life and
love. It is this, I say, which I can't bear to think about. And even
now--though you have scarcely got clear of the little trick which has
been played on you--you see, you go and begin at once to think about
this marriage again. I feel inclined to take away your appetite for it
in a very effectual style; and I could do so if I chose, without the
slightest difficulty. However, I don't want to go so far as that. But
what my advice to you would be is--that you should keep as quiet, and
as much out of the way as ever you can till Sunday next, at twelve
o'clock at noon, and then you will see more into things. If you dare to
go and see Albertine before that time, I will make you go on dancing in
her presence till your breath and senses abandon you. Then I will
transform you into the very greenest of frogs, and chuck you into the
basin of the Thiergarten, or into the River Spree itself, where you'll
go on croaking till the end of your days. Good-bye! I have something to
do in town which obliges me to get back there as quickly as possible.
You won't be able to follow me, or keep up with me. Good-bye!"
The Goldsmith was right in saying that it would not be possible for
Tussmann, or anybody else, to keep up with him, for he was off through
the door and out of sight, as if he had Schlemihl's seven-leagued boots
on.
Perhaps this was why, the next minute after he had disappeared from
Tussmann, he appeared suddenly, like a ghost, in the Commissionsrath's
room, and bade him good evening in a rough tone.
The Commissionsrath was very frightened, but he pulled himself
together, and asked the Goldsmith, with some warmth, what he meant by
coming in at that time of the night, adding that he wished he would
take himself off, and not bother him any more with any of those
conjuring tricks of his, as he presumed he was about to do.
"Ah!" said the Goldsmith very calmly, "that is how people are,
particularly Commissionsraths. Just the very people who come to them,
wishing to do them a service, into whose arms they ought to throw
themselves with a confident heart--just those are the people whom they
want to kick out of the door. My good Herr Commissionsrath, you are a
poor unfortunate man, a real object of pity and commiseration. I have
come here--I have _hastened_ here--at this late hour of the night, to
consult with you as to how this terrible blow which is hanging over you
may be averted--if averted it can be--and you----"
"Oh, God," the Commissionsrath cried, "another bankruptcy in Hamburg, I
suppose, or in Bremen, or London, to ruin me out and out! That was all
that was wanted. Oh, I'm a ruined man!"
"No," the Goldsmith said, "it's an affair of a different kind
altogether; you say that you won't allow young Edmund Lehsen to marry
Albertine, do you not?"
"What's the good of talking about such a piece of absurdity?" the
Commissionsrath replied. "I to give my daughter to this beggar of a
penciller."
"Well," said the Goldsmith, "he has painted a couple of magnificent
portraits of you and her."
"Oh, oh," cried Bosswinkel, "a fine piece of business it would be to
hand over my daughter for a couple of daubs on canvas; I've sent the
trash back to him."
"If you don't let Edmund have your daughter," the Goldsmith continued,
"he will have his revenge."
"Pretty story!" answered Bosswinkel. "What revenge is this little bit
of a beggar, who dribbles paints on to canvas, and hasn't a farthing to
bless himself with, going to take upon Commissionsrath Melchior
Bosswinkel, I should like to know?"
"I'll tell you that in a moment," said the Goldsmith. "Edmund is going
to alter your portrait in a way which you thoroughly deserve. The
kindly, smiling face he is going to turn into a sour, grumpy one, with
lowering brow, bleary eyes, and hanging lips. He will deepen the
wrinkles on the brow and cheeks, and he won't omit to indicate, in
proper colour, those grey hairs which the powder is intended to hide.
Before you, instead of the pleasant news about the lottery prize, he
will write, very legibly, the most unpleasant purport of the letter
which came to you the day before yesterday, telling you that Campbell
and Co. of London had stopped payment, addressed on the envelope to the
'Bankrupt Commissionsrath,' &c., &c. From the torn pockets of your
waistcoat he will show ducats, thalers, and treasury bills falling, to
indicate the losses you have had, and this picture will be put in the
window of the picture dealer next door to the bank in Hunter Street."
"The demon, the blackguard," the Commissionsrath cried; "he shan't do
that, I'll send for the police, I'll appeal to the courts for an
interim interdict!"
The Goldsmith said, with much tranquillity, "As soon as even fifty
people have seen this picture, that is to say, after it has been in the
window for a brief quarter of an hour, the tale will be all over the
town, with every description of addition and exaggeration. Every thing
in the least degree ridiculous which has ever been said about you, or
is being said now, will be brought up again, dressed in fresh and more
brilliant colours. Every one you meet will laugh in your face, and,
what is the worst of all, everybody will talk about your losses in the
Campbell bankruptcy, so your credit will be gone."
"Oh, Lord," said Bosswinkel, "but he must let me have the picture back,
the scoundrel? Ay; that he must, the first thing in the morning."
"And if he were to agree to do so," the Goldsmith said, ("of which I
have great doubts) how much the better would you be? He's making a
copper etching of you, as I have just described you. He'll have several
hundred copies thrown off, touch them up himself _con amore_, and send
them all over the world--to Hamburg, Bremen, Lübeck, London even."
"Stop, stop," Bosswinkel cried; "go, as fast as you can, to this
terrible fellow; offer him fifty, yes, offer him a hundred thalers if
he will let this business about my portrait remain in _statu quo_."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the Goldsmith; "you forget that Lehsen doesn't
care a fiddlestick about money. His people are well off. His
grand-aunt, Miss Lehsen, who lives in Broad Street, is going to leave
him all her money, £12,000 at the very least."
"What," the Commissionsrath cried, pale with the suddenness of his
amazement, "£12,000. I tell you what it is. I believe Albertine is
crazy about young Lehsen, and I'm not a bad-hearted fellow. I am an
affectionate father; can't bear crying, and all that sort of thing.
When she sets her heart on a thing, I can't refuse her. Besides, I like
the fellow; he's a first-rate painter, you know; and where Art is
concerned I'm a perfect gaby. There are a great many capital points
about Lehsen. £12,000. I'll tell you what it is, Leonhard, just out of
mere goodheartedness, I shall let this nice young fellow have my
daughter."
"Hm!" said the Goldsmith, "there's something queer, too, which I want
to speak to you about. I was at the Thiergarten just before I came
here, and I found your old friend and schoolfellow, Tussmann, going to
jump into the water because Albertine wouldn't have anything to say to
him. I had the greatest difficulty in preventing him from doing it; and
it was only by telling him that you would be quite certain to keep your
word, and make her marry him, that I did succeed in preventing him.
Now, if this is not so, if she doesn't marry him, and if you give her
to young Lehsen, there cannot be a doubt that the Clerk of the Privy
Chancery will carry out his idea of jumping into that basin. Think what
a sensation the suicide of a person of Tussmann's 'respectability' will
create. Everybody will consider that you, and no other, are responsible
for his death. You will be looked upon with horror and contempt. Nobody
will ask you to dinner, and if you go to a café to see what's in the
papers, you will be shown to the door, or kicked downstairs; and more
than that, Tussmann bears the very highest character in his profession.
All his superiors have a very high opinion of him; the Government
departments think him a most valuable official. If you are supposed to
be answerable for his death, you know that you need never expect to
find a single member of the Privy Legation, or of the Upper Chamber of
Finance, in when you go to see them. None of the offices which your
business affairs require you to be _en rapport_ with will have a word
to say to you. Your title of Commissionsrath will be taken from you,
blow will follow upon blow, your credit will be gone, your income will
fall away, things will go from bad to worse, till at last, in poverty,
misery and contempt, you will--"
"For God's sake stop!" cried the Commissionsrath, "you are putting me
to a regular martyrdom. Who would have thought that Tussmann would have
been such a goose at his time of life? But you are quite right;
whatever happens, I must keep my word to him, or I'm a ruined man. Yes,
it is so ordained, Tussmann must marry Albertine."
"You're forgetting all about Baron Dümmerl," said the Goldsmith, "and
Manasseh's terrible curse. In him, if you reject Baron Benjie, you have
the most fearful enemy. He will oppose you in all your speculations;
will stick at no means of injuring your credit, take every possible
opportunity of doing you an ill turn, and never rest till he has
brought you to shame and disgrace; till the D[=a]-l[ve]s, which he laid
upon you along with his curse, has actually taken up its abode in your
house; so that, you see, whatever you do with Albertine, to whichsoever
of her wooers you give her, you get into trouble, and that is why I
said at the beginning, that you are a poor, unfortunate man, an object
of pity and commiseration."
Bosswinkel ran up and down the room like a lunatic, crying over and
over again, "It's all over with me; I am a miserable man, a ruined
Commissionsrath. O Lord, if I only could get the girl off my shoulders;
the devil take the whole lot of them, Lehsen, and Benjie, and my old
Tussmann into the bargain."
"Now," said the Goldsmith, "there is one way of getting out of all this
mess."
"What is it?" said Bosswinkel; "I'll adopt it, whatever it is."
Leonhard said, "Did you ever see the play of 'The Merchant of Venice'?"
"That's the piece," answered Bosswinkel, "where Devrient plays a
bloody-minded Jew of the name of Shylock, who wants a pound of a
merchant's flesh. Of course I've seen it, but what has that to do with
the matter?"
"You will remember," the Goldsmith said, "that there is a certain
wealthy young lady in it of the name of Portia, whose father so
arranged matters in his will that her hand is made a species of prize
in a kind of lottery. Three caskets are set out, of which her wooers
have each to choose one, and open it. The one who finds Portia's
portrait in the casket which he chooses obtains her hand. Now do you,
Commissionsrath, as a living father, do what her dead father did. Tell
the three wooers that, inasmuch as one of them is exactly the same to
you as another, they must allow chance to decide between them. Set up
three caskets for them to choose amongst, and let the one who finds her
portrait in his casket be her husband."
"What an extraordinary idea," said the Commissionsrath; "and even if I
were to go in for it, do you suppose, dear Mr. Leonhard, that I should
be one bit better off? When chance did decide the matter, I should
still have to deal with the rage and hatred of the unsuccessful two."
"Wait a moment," the Goldsmith said; "it is just there that the
important part of the business lies. I promise that I will order and
arrange the affair of the caskets so that it shall turn out happily and
satisfactorily for all parties. The two who make mistakes shall find in
their caskets, not a scornful dismissal, like the Princes of Morocco
and Arragon, but something which shall so greatly please and delight
them that they will think no more of marrying Albertine, but will look
upon you as the author of unhoped, undreamt of happiness to them."
"Oh, can it be possible!" the Commissionsrath cried.
"Not only is it possible," the Goldsmith answered, "but it will, it
must happen, exactly as I have said it will; I give you my word for
it."
The Commissionsrath made no further objection, and they arranged that
the Goldsmith's plan should be put in execution on the next Sunday at
noon. Leonhard undertook to provide the three caskets, all ready.
CHAPTER VI.
WHAT HAPPENED AT THE CHOOSING OF THE CASKETS, AND THE
CONCLUSION OF THE TALE.
As may be imagined, Albertine got into a condition of the most utter
despair when her father told her about the wretched lottery in which
her hand was to be the prize, and all her prayers and tears were
powerless to turn him from this idea, when he had once got it fairly
into his head. Then, besides this, Lehsen seemed indifferent and
indolent, in a way that nobody who really loved could be, not making
any attempt to see her privately, or even to send her a message.
On the Saturday night before the fateful Sunday she was sitting alone
in her room, as the twilight was deepening into night, her mind full of
the misfortune which was threatening her. She was calculating whether
or not it would be better to come to a speedy determination to fly from
her father's roof, rather than wait till the most fearful destiny
conceivable should accomplish itself, that of marrying either the
pedantic old Tussmann, or the insufferable Baron Benjie, and then she
remembered the mysterious Goldsmith, and the strange, supernatural way
in which he had prevented the Baron from touching her. She felt quite
sure that he had been on Edmund's side then; wherefore a hope began to
dawn in her heart that it must be on him that she should rely for help
at this crisis of her affairs. Above all things she wished that she
only could just have a little talk with him then and there; and was
quite sure that she shouldn't be at all frightened, really, if he were
to appear to her suddenly, in some strange, spectral sort of manner.
So that she really was not in the least frightened when she saw that
what she had been thinking was the stove was really Leonhard the
Goldsmith, who came up to her and said, in a gentle, harmonious
voice:--
"My dear child, lay aside all grief and anxiety. Edmund Lehsen, whom,
at present at all events, you believe you love, is a special _protégé_
of mine; and I am helping him with all the power at my command. Let me
further tell you that it was I who put the lottery idea into your
father's head; that I am going to provide and prepare the caskets, and,
of course, you see that no one but Edmund will find your portrait."
Albertine felt inclined to shout for joy. The Goldsmith continued:--
"I could have brought about the giving of your hand to Edmund in other
ways; but I particularly wish to make the two rivals, Tussmann and the
Baron, completely contented at the same time. So that that is going to
be done, and you and your father will be quite sure to have no more
trouble on their part."
Albertine poured forth the warmest expressions of gratitude. She almost
fell at his feet, she pressed his hand to her heart, she declared that,
notwithstanding all the magic tricks he had performed, nay, even after
the way he had come into her room, she wasn't in the least afraid of
him; and she concluded with the somewhat naive request that he would
tell her all about himself, and who he really was.
"My dear child," he answered, "it would not be by any means an easy
matter for me to tell you exactly who I am. Like many others, I know
much better whom I take other people for than what I really and truly
am myself. But I may tell you, my dear, that many think I am none other
than that Leonhard Turnhäuser the Goldsmith, who was such a famous
character at the court of the Elector Johann Georg, in the year 1580,
and who disappeared, none knew how or where, when envy and calumny
tried to ruin him; and if the members of the imaginative or romantic
school say that I am this Turnhäuser, a spectral being, you may imagine
what I have to suffer at the hands of the solid and enlightened portion
of the community, the respectable citizens, and the men of business,
who think they have something better to do than to bother their heads
about poetry and romance. Then, even the aesthetic people want to watch
me and dog my steps, just as the doctors and the divines did in Johann
Georg's time, and try to embitter and spoil whatever little modicum of
an existence I am able to lay claim to, as much as ever they can. My
dear girl, I see well enough already, that though I take all this
tremendous interest in young Edmund Lehsen and you, and turn up at
every corner like a regular _deux ex machina_, there will be plenty of
people of the same way of thinking with those of the aesthetic school,
who will never be able to swallow me, historically speaking, who will
never be able to bring themselves to believe that I ever really existed
at all. So that, just that I might manage to get something like a more
or less firm footing, I have never ventured to say, in so many words,
that I am Leonard Turnhäuser, the Goldsmith of the sixteenth century.
The folks in question are quite welcome to say, if they please, that I
am a clever conjurer, and find the explanations of every one of my
tricks (as they may style the phenomena and the results which I
produce) in Wieglieb's 'Natural Magic,' or some book of the kind. I
have still one more 'feat,' as they would call it, to perform, which
neither Philidor, nor Philadelphia, nor Cagliostro, nor any other
conjurer would be able to do, and which, being completely inexplicable,
must always remain a stumbling-block to the kind of people in question.
But I cannot help performing it, because it is indispensable to the
_dénouement_ of this Berlinese tale of the Choice of a Bride by three
personages, suitors for the hand of Miss Albertine Bosswinkel. So keep
up your heart, my dear child, rise to-morrow morning in good time, put
on the dress which you like the best, because it is the most becoming
you happen to have; do your hair in the way you think suits you best,
and then await, as quietly and patiently as you can, what will happen."
He disappeared exactly as he had come.
On the next day--the Sunday--at eleven o'clock--the appointed
time--there arrived at the place of rendezvous old Manasseh with his
hopeful nephew--Tussmann--and Edmund Lehsen with the Goldsmith. The
wooers, not excepting the Baron, were almost frightened when they saw
Albertine, who had never seemed so lovely and taking. I am in a
position to assure every lady, married or otherwise, who attaches the
proper amount of importance to dress, that the way in which Albertine's
was trimmed, and the material of the trimmings, were most elegant; that
the frock itself was just the right length to show her pretty little
feet in their white satin shoes; that the arms of it (short, of
course), and the corsage were bordered with the richest Point; that her
white French gloves came up to just the least little bit above her
elbows, showing her beautiful arm; that the only thing she had on her
head was a lovely gold comb set with jewels; in short, that her dress
was quite that of a bride, except that she had no myrtle wreath in her
bonny brown hair. But the reason why she was so much more beautiful
than she ever had been before was that love and hope beamed in her eyes
and bloomed on her cheeks.
Bosswinkel, in a burst of hospitality, had provided a splendid lunch.
Old Manasseh glowered at the table laid out for this repast with
malignant glances askance, and when the Commissionsrath begged him to
fall to, on his countenance could be read the answer of Shylock:--
"Yes, to smell pork, to eat of the habitation which your prophet, the
Nazarite, conjured the devil into. I will buy with you, sell with you,
talk with you, walk with you, and so following; but I will not eat with
you, drink with you, nor pray with you."
The Baron was less conscientious, for he ate more beefsteak than was
seemly, and talked a great deal of stupid nonsense, as was his wont.
The Commissionsrath behaved wholly contrarily to his nature on this
important occasion. Not only did he pour out bumpers of Port and
Madeira, regardless of expense, and even told the company that he had
some Madeira in his cellar a hundred years old; but when the luncheon
was over he explained to the suitors the method in which his daughter's
hand was to be disposed of in a speech much better put together than
anybody would ever have expected of him. They were given to understand
most clearly that the successful one must find her portrait in the
casket which he chose.
When twelve o'clock struck the door of the hall opened, and there was
seen in the middle of it a table with a rich cover on it, bearing the
three caskets.
One was of shining gold, with a circle of glittering ducats on its lid,
and the inscription inside them--
"Who chooseth me doth gain that which he much desires."
The second was of silver, richly chased. On its lid were many words and
letters of foreign languages, encircling this inscription--
"Who chooseth me doth find more than he hopes."
The third, plainly carved of ivory, was inscribed--
"Who chooseth me doth gain his dreamed-of bliss."
Albertine took her place on a chair behind the table, her father by her
side. Manasseh and the Goldsmith drew away into the background.
The lots were drawn, and, Tussmann having the first choice, the Baron
and Edmund had to go into the other room.
The Clerk of the Privy Chancery went carefully and considerately up to
the table, looked at the caskets with much minuteness of observation,
read the inscriptions on them one after another. Soon he found himself
irresistibly attracted by the beautiful characters of foreign languages
so charmingly intertwined on the cover of the silver casket.
"Good heavens!" he cried, "what beautiful lettering, with what skill
those Arabic characters are brought in amongst the Roman letters, and
'Who chooseth me doth gain more than he hopes.' Now have I gone on
cherishing the slightest hope that Miss Albertine would be so gracious
as to honour me with her hand? wasn't I going to throw myself into the
basin? Evidently here is comfort, here is good fortune.
Commissionsrath! Miss Albertine! I choose the silver one."
Albertine rose and handed him a little key, with which he opened the
casket. Great was his consternation to find, not Albertine's portrait,
but a little book bound in parchment, which, when he opened it,
appeared to consist of blank white pages. Beside it lay a little scrap
of paper, with the words--
"Thy choice was, in a way, amiss,
But those few words do tell thee this--
What thou hast won will never alter,
To use it thou needs't never falter.
What 'tis as yet thou dost not see,
An endless source of joy 'twill be.
_Ignorantiam_ 'twill enlighten,
_Sapientiam_ further brighten."
"Good heavens!" cried Tussmann, "it's a book. Yet, no, it's not a book,
and there's nothing in the shape of a portrait. It's merely a lot of
paper bound up together; my hopes are dashed to earth, all is over with
me now. All I have got to do is to be off to the frog-pond as quickly
as I can."
But as he was hurrying away the Goldsmith stopped him, and said--
"Tussmann, you're very foolish; you've got hold of the most priceless
treasure you could possibly have come across. Those lines of verse
ought to have told you so at once. Do me the favour to put that book
which you found in the casket into your pocket."
Tussmann did so.
"Now," said the Goldsmith, "think of some book or other which you would
wish that you had in your pocket at this moment."
"Oh, my goodness," said Tussmann, "I went and shied Thomasius's little
treatise on 'Diplomatic Acumen' into the frog-pond, like an utter fool
as I was."
"Put your hand in your pocket," said the Goldsmith, "and take out the
book."
Tussmann did so, and lo, the book which he brought out was none other
than Thomasius's treatise!
"Ha!" cried Tussmann, "what is this? Why it is Thomasius's treatise, my
beloved Thomasius, rescued from the congregation of frogs in the pond,
who would never have learned diplomatic acumen from him."
"Keep yourself calm," the Goldsmith said; "put the book into your
pocket again."
Tussmann did so.
"Think of some other rare work," the Goldsmith said: "one which you
have never been able to come across in any library."
"Oh, good gracious!" cried Tussmann in melancholy accents. "I have
been, you see, in the habit of sometimes going to the opera, so that I
have wanted, very much, to ground myself a little in the theory of
music, and I have been trying in vain hitherto to get hold of a copy of
a certain little treatise which explains the arts of the composer and
the performer, in an allegorical form. I mean Johann Beer's 'Musical
War,' an account of the contest between composition and harmony, which
are represented under the guise of two heroines, who do battle with
each other, and end by being completely reconciled."
"Feel in your pocket," said the Goldsmith; and the Clerk of the Privy
Chancery shouted with joy when he found that his paper book now
consisted of Johann Beer's 'Musical War.'
"You see now, do you not," said the Goldsmith, "that in the book which
you found in the casket you possess the finest and most complete
library that anybody ever had? and more than that, you take it about
with you in your pocket. For, while you have this remarkable book in
your pocket, it will always be whatever book you happen to want to
read, as soon as you take it out."
Without wasting a thought on Albertine or the Commissionsrath, Tussmann
went and sat down in an armchair in a corner, stuck the book into his
pocket, pulled it out again, and it was easy to see, by the delight in
his countenance, how completely the Goldsmith's promise had been
fulfilled.
It was the Baron's turn next. He came strolling up to the table in his
foolish, loutish manner, looked at the caskets through his eyeglass,
and murmured out the inscriptions one after the other. But soon a
natural, inborn, irresistible instinct drew him to the gold casket,
with the shining ducats on its lid. "Who chooseth me doth gain that
which he much desires." "Certainly ducats are what I much desire, and
Albertine is what I much desire. I don't see much good in bothering
over this."
So he grasped the golden casket; took its key from Albertine, opened
it, and found a nice little English file! Beside it lay a piece of
paper with the words:--
"Now thou hast the thing thy heart
Longed for, with the keenest smart.
All besides is mere parade.
Onward--never retrograde--
Moves a truly thriving Trade."
"And what the Devil's the use of this thing?" Benjie cried, surveying
the file. "It isn't Albertine's picture, you know; however, I shall
hold on to the casket; it'll be a wedding-present to Albertine. Come to
me, dearest child!" With which he was making straight for Albertine;
but the Goldsmith held him back by the shoulders, saying--
"Stop, my good sir; that's not in the bargain: you must content
yourself with the file. And you will be content with it, when you find
out what a treasure it is. In fact, the paper tells you, if you can
understand it. Have you got a worn ducat in your pocket?"
"Well," said Benjie, angrily, "and what then?"
"Out with it," the Goldsmith said, "and try the file on the edge of
it."
The Baron did so, with an amount of skill which told of much previous
practice; and the more ducats he filed at--for he tried a good many,
one after another--the fresher the edges of them came out.
Up to this point Manasseh had been looking on in silence at what was
transpiring; but here he jumped up, with eyes sparkling wildly, and
dashed at his nephew, crying, in a hollow, terrible voice--
"God of my Fathers! what do I see? Give me that file!--here with it
instantly! It is the piece of magic-work for which I sold my soul more
than three hundred years ago. God of my Fathers!--hand it over to me!"
And he made at his nephew to take it from him; but Benjie pushed him
back, crying, "Go to the Deuce, you old idiot! It was I who found the
file, not you!"
To which Manasseh responded, in fury: "Viper! Worm-eaten fruit of my
race!--Here with that file! All the Demons of Hell be upon you,
accursed thief!"
Manasseh clutched hold of the Baron, with a torrent of Hebrew curses,
and foaming and gnashing his teeth, he exerted all the strength at his
command to wrest the file from him. But Benjie fought for it as a
lioness does for her cubs, till at length Manasseh was worn out; on
which his nephew seized him by the shoulders and threw him out of the
door, with such force that all his limbs cracked again. Then, coming
back like a flash of lightning, he shoved a small table into a corner,
and sitting down there, opposite to the Clerk of the Privy Chancery,
took a handful of ducats from his pocket, and set to work to file away
at them as hard as he could.
"Now," said the Goldsmith, "we have seen the last of that terrible
Manasseh. He is off our hands, for good and all. People say he is a
second Ahasuerus, and has been going spooking about since the year
1572. That was the year in which he was put to death for diabolical
practices and sorcery, under the name of Lippolt, the Jew-coiner. But
the Devil saved his body from death at the price of his immortal soul.
Many folk who understand those things say they have seen him in Berlin
in a good many forms; so that, if all tales are true, there are a good
number of Lippolts at the present time about. However, I, who have a
certain amount of experience in those mysterious matters, can assure
you that I have given him his quietus."
It would weary you very needlessly, dear reader, were I to waste words
in telling you what you know quite well; namely, that Edmund Lehsen
chose the ivory casket, inscribed--
"Who chooseth me doth gain his dreamed-of bliss,"
and found in it a beautiful portrait of Albertine, with the lines--
"Yes--thou hast it--read thy chance
In thy darling's loving glance.
What has past returns no more--
Earthly fate so willeth this.
All the joy which lies _before_
Gather from thy sweetheart's kiss."
And Edmund, like Bassanio, followed the counsel of the last line, and
pressed his blushing sweetheart to his breast, and kissed her glowing
lips; whilst the Commissionsrath greatly rejoiced, and was full
of happiness over this happy _dénouement_ of this most involved
love-affair.
Meanwhile the Baron had been filing at ducats quite as eagerly and
absorbedly as the Clerk of the Privy Chancery had been reading, neither
of them taking the slightest notice of what had been going on, till the
Commissionsrath announced, in a loud voice, that Edmund Lehsen had
chosen the casket containing Albertine's portrait, and was,
consequently, to be her husband. Tussmann seemed to be quite delighted
to hear it, and expressed his satisfaction in his usual manner, by
rubbing his hands, jumping a little way up and down for a moment or
two, and giving a delicate little laugh. The Baron seemed to feel no
further interest about the matter; but he embraced the Commissionsrath;
said he was a real "gentleman" and had made him most utterly happy by
his present of the file, and told him that he could always count upon
him, in all circumstances. With which he took his departure.
Tussmann, too, thanked him, with tears of the most heartfelt emotion,
for making him the happiest of men by this most rare and wonderful of
all rare and wonderful books; and, after the most profuse expenditure
of politeness to Albertine, Edmund, and the old Goldsmith, he followed
the Baron as quickly as ever he could.
Benjie ceased to torture the world of letters with literary abortions,
as he had formerly done, preferring to employ his time in filing
ducats; and Tussmann no longer made the booksellers' lives a burden to
them by pestering them to hunt out old forgotten books for him.
But when a few weeks of rapture and happiness had passed, a great and
bitter sorrow took possession of the Commissionsrath's house. For the
Goldsmith urged, in the strongest terms, upon Edmund that for his own
sake, and for the sake of his art, he was bound to keep his solemn
promise and go to Italy.
Edmund, notwithstanding the dreadful parting from Albertine, felt the
strongest possible impulse urging him towards the country of the arts;
and, although Albertine shed the bitterest tears, she could not help
thinking how very nice it would be to be able to take out letters from
her lover at Rome, and read them out--or extracts from them--at
aesthetic teas of an afternoon.
Edmund has been in Rome now more than a year, and people do say that
his correspondence with Albertine languishes, and that the letters are
becoming rarer and colder. Who knows whether or not anything will ever
come, ultimately, of the engagement between those two people? Certainly
Albertine won't be long "in the market" in any case; she is so pretty,
and so well off. Just at present, there is young Mr. Gloria (just going
to be called to the bar), a very nice young gentleman indeed, with a
slim and tightly-girded waist, a couple of waistcoats on at once, and a
cravat tied in the English style; and he danced all last season with
Albertine, and is to be seen now going continually with her to the
Thiergarten, whilst the Commissionsrath trots very complacently after
them, looking like a satisfied father. Moreover, Mr. Gloria has passed
his second examination at the Supreme Court with flying colours.
"So perhaps he and Albertine may make a match of it, should he get a
fairly good appointment. There's no telling. Let us see what happens."
"You have certainly written a wonderfully crack-brained thing in that,"
Ottmar said, when Lothair had finished. "This 'Tale containing
improbable incidents,' as you have called it, appears to me to be a
kind of mosaic, composed of all kinds of stones put together at random,
which dazzles and confuses one's eyes so that they can't take firm hold
of any definite figure."
"As far as I am concerned," Theodore said, "I must confess that I think
a great deal of it is exceedingly delightful, and that it might very
likely have been a very superior production, if Lothair hadn't, most
imprudently, gone and read Hafftitz. The consequence of this was that
those two practitioners of the black art, the Goldsmith and the
Jew-coiner, had to be brought into the story somehow, willy-nilly; and
thus those two unfortunate revenants make their appearance as
heterogeneous elements, working, with their sorceries, in an
unnaturally constrained manner among the incidents of the tale. It is
well your story hasn't been printed, or you would have been hauled over
the coals by the critics."
"Wouldn't it do to light up the pages of a Berlin Almanack?" the Author
asked, with one of his ironical smiles. "Of course I should still more
localize the localities, and add a few names of celebrities, and so
gain a little applause from the literary-aesthetic, if from nobody
else.[2]
[Footnote 2: "This speech of Lothair's shows what the Author had in his
mind at the time. The tale _did_ appear in the Berlin Almanack of 1820,
with additional localities, and names of celebrities in the Art-World,
but the publishers told him he ought to try to keep within the bounds
of 'probability,' in future."--(Note of Editor of Collected Works.)]
"However, all the same, my dear friends, did you not laugh heartily
enough at times, as I was reading it? and ought that not to deprive
your criticism of some of its severity? If you, Ottmar, say my tale is
a mosaic, you might admit that it has something of a Kaleidoscope
character, in spite of its crackiness, and that its matters, though
most adventitiously shaken together, do ultimately form more or less
interesting combinations. At all events, you surely admit that there
are one or two good characters in my story, and at the head of them,
the love-stricken Baron Benjie, that worthy scion of the Jew-coiner
race of Lippolts; however, we've had far too much of my piece of
patchwork, which was only intended to amuse you for a moment as a
_bizarre_ jest. What I would have you notice is that I have been
faithful to my principle of welding on the Legendary to the every-day
life of the present day."
"And," said Theodore, "I am a great adherent of that principle. It used
to be supposed to be necessary to localize everything of the legendary
kind in the remote East, taking Scheherezade as the model in so doing;
and, as soon as we touched upon the manners, the customs, the ways of
life of the East, we got into a world which was apparently hovering,
adrift, all in a sort of unreality, anchorless, before our eyes, on the
point of floating away and disappearing. This is why those tales so
often strike coldly on us, and have no power to kindle the inner
spirit--the fancy. What I think, and mean, is, that the foot of the
heavenly ladder, which we have got to mount in order to reach the
higher regions, has to be fixed firmly in every-day life, so that
everybody may be able to climb up it along with us. When people then
find that they have got climbed up higher and higher into a marvellous,
magical world, they will feel that that realm, too, belongs to their
ordinary, every-day life, and is, merely, the wonderful and most
glorious part thereof. For them it is the beautiful flower-garden
beyond the city-wall into which they can go, and in which they can
wander and enjoy themselves, if they have but made up their minds to
quit the gloomy walls of the city, for a time."
"Don't forget, though, Theodore, my friend," said Ottmar, "that there
are quantities of people who won't go up the ladder at all, because it
isn't 'proper' or 'becoming.' And many turn giddy by the time they get
to the third rung of it. Many never see the ladder at all, though it is
facing them in the broad, daily path of their lives, and they pass by
it every day. As regards the tales of the 'Thousand and One Nights,' it
is remarkable enough that most of those who have tried to imitate them
have overlooked that which is just what gives them life and reality--
exactly what Lothair's principle is. All the cobblers, tailors,
dervishes, merchants, and so forth, who appear as the characters in
those tales, are people who are to be met with every day in the
streets. And--inasmuch as life is independent of times and manners, but
is always the same affair--in its essential conditions (and always must
be so), it follows that we feel that all those folks--upon whom, in the
middle of their everyday lives, such extraordinary and magical
adventures came, and such spells wound themselves--are really the sort
of people who are actually walking about amongst us. Such is the
marvellous, mighty power of description, characterization, and
representation in that immortal book."
As the evening was fast growing colder, it was thought advisable--on
account of Theodore's having but half recovered from his late
illness--that the friends should go to the great summer-house, and
indulge in a cup of refreshing tea, in place of anything more exciting.
And when the urn was on the table, singing its usual little domestic
tune, Ottmar said--
"I don't think I could have a better opportunity for reading you a
tale which I wrote a long while ago, and which happens to begin with
tea-drinking. I mention, to begin with, that it is in Cyprian's style."
Ottmar read--
THE UNCANNY GUEST.
A storm was raging through the heavens, announcing the coming of
winter, whirling black clouds on its wings, which dashed down hissing,
rattling squall-showers of rain and hail.
"Nobody will come to-night," said Madame von G. to her daughter
Angelica, as the clock struck seven. "They would never venture out in
such weather. If your father were but home!"
Almost as she was speaking, in came Captain Moritz von E. (a cavalry
officer), followed by a young Barrister, whose brilliant and
inexhaustible fund of humour and wit was the life and soul of the
circle which was accustomed to assemble every Thursday evening in
Colonel von G.'s house. So that, as Angelica said, there was little
cause to be sorry that the less intimate members of the circle were
away, seeing that the more welcome ones had come.
It felt very chilly in the drawing-room. The lady of the house had had
a fire lighted, and the tea-table brought.
"I am sure," she said, "that you two gentlemen, who have been so
courageous as to come to see us tonight through such a storm, can
never be content with our wretched tea. Mademoiselle Marguerite shall
make you a brew of that good, northern beverage which can keep any
sort of weather out." Marguerite--a young French lady, who was
"companion" to Angelica, for the sake of her language, and other
lady-like accomplishments, but who was only about her own age, or
barely more--came, and performed the duty thus entrusted to her. So the
punch steamed, while the fire sparkled and blazed; and the company sate
down round the little tea-table.
A shiver suddenly passed through them--through each and all of them;
and they felt chilled. Though they had been talking merrily before they
sat down, there fell now upon them a momentary silence, during which
the strange voices which the storm had called into life in the chimney
whistled and howled with marvellous distinctness.
"There can be no doubt," said Dagobert (the young barrister), "that the
four ingredients, Autumn, a stormy Wind, a good fire, and a jorum of
punch, have, when taken together, a strange power of causing people to
experience a curious sense of awesomeness."
"A very pleasant one, though," said Angelica. "At all events, I do not
know a more delightful sensation than the sort of strange shiveriness
which goes through one when one feels--heaven knows how, or why--as if
one were suddenly casting a glance, with one's eyes open, into some
strange, mystic dream-world."
"Exactly," said Dagobert; "that delicious shiveriness was exactly what
came over all of us just now; and the glance into the dream-world,
which we were involuntarily making at that moment, made us all silent.
It is well for us that we have got it over, and that we have come back
so quickly from the dream-world to this charming reality, which
provides us with this grand liquid." He rose, and, bowing politely to
Madame von G., emptied the glass before him.
"But," Moritz said, "if you felt all the deliciousness of that species
of shudder, and of the dreamy condition accompanying it (as Miss
Angelica and I did), why shouldn't you be glad to prolong it?"
"Let me say, my dear friend," Dagobert answered, "that the kind of
dreaminess which we have to do with in this instance is not that in
which the mind, or spirit, goes losing and sinking itself in all kinds
of vague labyrinths of complexity of wondrous, calm enjoyment. The
storm-wind, the blazing fire, and the punch are only the predisposing
causes of the onsetting of that incomprehensible, mysterious
condition--deeply grounded in our human organism--which our minds
strive, in vain, to fight against, and which we ought to take great
care not to allow ourselves to yield to over much. What I mean is, the
fear of the supernatural. We all know that the uncanny race of ghosts,
the haunters, choose the night (and particularly in stormy weather), to
arise from their darksome dwellings, and set forth upon their
mysterious wanderings. So that we are right in expecting some of those
fearsome visitants just at a time like this."
"You do not mean what you say, of course," Madame von G. answered; "and
I need not tell you that the sort of superstitious fear which we so
often, in a childish way, feel, is not in any degree inherent in our
organization as human beings. I am certain that it is chiefly traceable
to the foolish stories of ghosts, and so forth, which servants tell us
while we are children."
"No, Madame," Dagobert answered; "those tales--which we enjoyed more
than any others which we heard as children--would never have raised up
such an enduring echo in us if the strings which re-echo them had not
existed within us to begin with. There is no denying the existence of
the mysterious spirit-world which lies all around us, and often gives
us note of its Being in wondrous, mystic sounds, and even in marvellous
sights. Most probably the shudder of awe with which we receive those
intimations of that spirit-world, and the involuntary fear which
they produce in us, are nothing but the result of our being hemmed
in--imprisoned--by our human organization. The awe and the fear are
merely the modes in which the spirit imprisoned within our bodies
expresses its sorrow thereat."
"You are a spirit-seer, a believer in all those things--like all people
who have lively imaginations," said Madame von G. "But if I were to go
the length of admitting, and believing, that it is permitted that an
unknown spirit-world should reveal its existence to us by means of
sounds and sights, I should still have to say that I am unable to
comprehend why that mysterious realm, and its denizens, should stand in
such a relation to us that they bring merely paralyzing fear and horror
upon us."
"Perhaps," Dagobert said, "it is the punishment inflicted on us by that
mother from whose care and discipline we have run away. I mean, that in
that golden age when our race was living in the most perfect union with
all nature, no dread or terror disturbed us, for the simple reason that
in the profound peace and perfect harmony of all created things, there
was nothing hostile that could cause us any such emotion. I was
mentioning strange spirit-sounds; but why is it that all the real
_nature_-tones--of whose origin and causes we can give the most
complete account--sound to us like the most piercing sorrow, and fill
our hearts with the profoundest dread? The most remarkable of those
nature-tones is the air-music, or, as it is called, the 'devil-voice,'
heard in Ceylon and the neighbouring countries, spoken of by Schubert
in his 'Glances at the Night-side of Natural Science.' This nature-tone
is heard on calm and bright nights, sounding like the wail of some
human creature lamenting in the deepest distress. It seems to come
sometimes from the most remote distance, and then again to be quite
close at hand. It affects the human intelligence so powerfully that the
most self-controlled cannot help feeling the deepest terror when they
hear it."
"Yes," said Moritz, "it is so. I have never been in Ceylon, certainly,
or in any of the neighbouring countries; but I have heard that terrible
nature-sound; and not only I, but every one else who heard it, felt
just that precise effect which Dagobert alludes to."
"I should be extremely obliged to you," said Dagobert, "and you would
probably convince Madame von G. also, if you would not mind telling us
what happened."
"You know," Moritz said, "that I served the campaign in Spain under
Wellington, with a mixed force of English and Spanish cavalry against
the French. The night before the battle of Vittoria I was bivouacking
in the open country. Being wearied to death by the long march we had
made during the day, I had fallen into a deep sleep of exhaustion, when
I was awakened by a piercing cry of distress. I naturally thought--and
it was the only idea that came into my mind--that what I heard was the
death-cry of some wounded soldier near me; but the comrades who were
lying round me were all snoring, and there was no other sound to be
heard. The first gleams of the dawn were breaking through the deep
darkness, and I got up and strode away over the bodies of the sleepers,
thinking that I might perhaps come across the wounded man, whoever he
was, who had uttered that cry. It was a singularly calm night, and
only most gradually and imperceptibly did the morning breeze begin to
move, and to cause the leaves to tremble. Then a second cry, like the
former--a long wail of woe--came ringing through the air, and died away
in the remotest distance. It was as though the spirits of the slain
were rising up from the battlefield, and wailing their boundless sorrow
out into the wide heaven. My breast throbbed, was overwhelmed by an
inexpressible awe; all the sorrow which I had ever heard exhaled from
all human breasts was nothing in comparison with that heart-piercing
wail. Our comrades now awoke from their sleep, and, for the third time,
that terrible cry of sorrow arose, and filled the whole air, more
fearful and awful than before. We were all smitten with the profoundest
fear; even the horses were terrified; they snorted and stamped. Many of
the Spaniards fell on their knees and prayed aloud. One of the English
officers told us that he had several times met with this phenomenon in
southern countries; and that it was of electrical origin, and there
would probably be a change in the weather. The Spaniards, with their
bent towards the supernatural, heard in it the mighty voices of
supernatural beings, announcing great events about to happen. In this
they were confirmed when, next day, the battle came thundering in upon
them, with all its horrors."
"Is there any occasion." Dagobert said, "to go to Ceylon, or to Spain,
to hear these marvellous Nature-tones of sorrow and complaining? Surely
the howling of the storm-wind, the rattling of the hail, the groanings
and creakings of the vanes are just as capable of filling us with
profound terror as are those other Nature-tones we have been speaking
of. Listen to that weird music which some hundreds of fearful voices
are organing down this chimney; or to the strange little spirit-like
ditty which the tea-urn is just beginning to sing."
"Oh! most ingenious indeed!" cried Madame von G. "Even into the very
tea-urn Dagobert conjures spirits which render themselves cognisable to
us by fearful cries of woe."
"But he is not far wrong, dear mother!" Angelica said. "I could very
soon be seriously frightened at the extraordinary way in which that
whistling, and rattling, and hissing is going on in the chimney; and
the little tune which the tea-urn is singing, in such a tone of
profound sorrow, is--to me--so eery and uncomfortable, that I shall go
and blow out the spirit lamp, that there may be an end of it at once."
Angelica rose: her handkerchief fell. Moritz quickly picked it up and
handed it to her. She allowed a glance, full of soul, from her heavenly
eyes to rest upon him; he took her hand, and pressed it fervently to
his lips.
At that moment Marguerite shuddered convulsively, as if touched by some
electric current, and allowed the glass of punch, which she had just
poured out for Dagobert, to drop from her hand. It shattered to atoms
on the floor. She cast herself down at Madame von G.'s feet sobbing
bitterly--said she was a stupid creature, and implored that she might
be allowed to go to her room. She said that what they had been talking
about had made her frightened and nervous--although she had not
understood it; that she felt frightened still--as if she could not stay
in the room--though she could not explain why; that she was feeling
unwell, and would like to get to bed. So saying, she kissed Madame von
G.'s hands, and bedewed them with the tears she was shedding.
Dagobert felt the painfulness of the incident, and the necessity of
giving matters a different turn. He, too, fell at Madame von G.'s feet,
and in the most pathetic voice at his command, begged forgiveness for
the culprit. As regarded the stain of punch on the floor, he vowed that
he would put waxed brushes on his feet in the morning, and go figuring
athwart the boards in the most exquisite tours, and steps that ever
inspired the brain of a court dancing-master.
Madame von G., who had at first been looking very grave over
Marguerite's mishap, strange as it seemed, and inexplicable, cleared up
a little at Dagobert's words. She gave each of them her hand with a
smile and said, "Rise, and wipe away your tears. You are forgiven,
Marguerite; you have this champion of yours to thank that I do not
inflict a very severe punishment upon you. But I can't let you go
altogether scot free. If you _are_ a little out of sorts, you must try
to forget it. I shall ordain you to stay here, be more assiduous than
before at filling the gentlemen's glasses with the punch, and, above
all things, you must reward your champion and defender with a kiss, in
token of your sincere gratitude."
"So that Virtue is its own reward," Dagobert said, with a comic pathos,
as he took Marguerite's hand. "All I ask of you, beauteous lady," he
continued, "is to believe that the world contains (though you might be
sceptical on the subject) legal luminaries of such a heroic sort that
they do not hesitate a moment to offer themselves up a sacrifice at the
shrine of Innocence and Truth. But we must obey the commands of our
fair judge, from whose award there is no appeal." And he impressed a
fugitive kiss upon Marguerite's lips, and then led her back to her seat
with much solemnity. Marguerite, blushing like a rose, laughed very
heartily; but the bright tears still stood in her eyes.
"Stupid fool that I am," she cried in French, "have I not got to do
whatever Madame von G. bids me? I will keep perfectly calm. I will go
on making their punch. I will listen to their ghost-stories without
being in the least afraid."
"Bravo, angelic child," cried Dagobert. "My heroism has infected you,
and the sweetness of your lips has inspired _me_. My imagination has
unfolded new wings, and I feel ready to serve up the most awful events
and mysteries from the 'Regno di Pianto.'"
"I thought we had done with this unpleasant subject," said Madame von
G.
"Oh no, mother dear," cried Angelica eagerly; "please to let Dagobert
go on! I am exactly like a child about those things. I don't know
anything I so delight in as a nice ghost story--something that makes
all one's flesh creep."
"Oh, how I _do_ like that!" Dagobert cried. "Nothing is so utterly
delightful in young ladies as their being tremendously superstitious,
and easily frightened; and I should never dream of marrying a woman who
was not terribly afraid of ghosts."
"You were saying a little while ago, dear Dagobert," said Moritz, "that
we ought to guard ourselves against--or take care how we allow
ourselves to get into--that dreamy state of awe which is the
commencement of spirit-fear--the dread of the superhuman, the ghostly
world. You have still got to explain to us the _why_."
"If there is, at the commencement of it, any real cause for that sense
of awesomeness--which is at first so thoroughly blended up with the
_dreamily_ pleasurable--it by no means remains at that stage. Soon
there supervenes a deadly fear--a horror which makes the hair stand on
end; so that the said pleasurable feeling at the commencement would
seem to be the fascination of temptation with which the Spirit World
lures us on and ensnares us. We were talking of certain Nature-tones
which are capable of explanation, and of their fearsome effect upon our
senses. But we at times hear sounds more extraordinary, of which the
origin and cause are indiscoverable by us, and which produce in us the
profoundest awe and terror. All reassuring ideas--such as that they
proceed from some animal in pain, or are produced by currents of air,
or other natural causes--are useless and of no avail. Every one, I
presume, has experienced that, in the night, the very faintest sound,
if only it occurs at regular intervals with pauses between, completely
drives away sleep, and goes on increasingly stirring up one's inward
disquiet till it reaches the point of complete disorganization of the
faculties. Not very long ago I had to spend a night, on a journey, at
an inn, where the landlord put me in a nice, comfortable, lofty, airy
bedroom. In the middle of the night I started up from my sleep, wide
awake. The moon was shining brightly in at the window, which was
uncurtained, so that I could see every article of the furniture, and
even the minutest objects in the room. There was a sound as of water
dropping into some metallic dish. I lay and listened. The drops went on
falling at regular, measured intervals, drip, drip, drip. My dog, who
was lying under the bed, crept out, and went about the room whimpering
and crying, scratching on the walls and on the floor. I felt as if
streams of icy water were running all through me, and the cold
perspiration dripped from my brow. However, I collected myself by a
great effort, and--after first of all giving a good loud shout--I got
out of bed, and went forward to the middle of the room. There the drops
seemed to be falling close in front of me, or rather I should say
_right through_ me into the metal, of which I heard the reverberation
ringing loud and clear as they fell. Then, overcome by terror, I crept
back, somehow, to the bed, and covered myself up with the bedclothes.
And then it seemed to me that the dropping--still going on at the same
regular intervals--grew gradually fainter and fainter, and died away as
if in the distance. I fell into a deep sleep, out of which I did not
wake till it was bright daylight in the morning. The dog had come and
lain down close beside me in bed, and did not move till I got up, when
he jumped up too, barking vigorously, as if he had got over his terror
of the previous night. It occurred to me that it might only be to me
that the (doubtless) natural cause or causes of this strange sound were
a mystery, and I told the landlord of my adventure--of which I still
felt the terror in all my frame. I ended by saying that he could, no
doubt, explain the whole affair to me, but that he ought to have told
me of it beforehand. He turned as pale as a sheet, and begged me never
to tell any one what had happened to me, as he would risk the loss of
his customers. He said many travellers had complained about that sound,
which they had heard on bright moonlight nights--that he had examined
everything with the utmost care and attention, and even had the floor
of that room and the adjoining one taken up, as well as making
inquisition into everything in the neighbourhood, without coming upon
the faintest trace of anything to account for this awe-inspiring noise.
It had not been heard for nearly a year before the night I speak of,
and he had been flattering himself that the Principle--whatever it
might be--which was haunting the room had ceased its operation. But
seeing, to his great alarm, that in this he was mistaken, he determined
that he would never, in any circumstances, allow anybody to pass the
night there again."
"Oh! how terrible!" cried Angelica, shuddering like one in the cold
stage of an ague. "That is really most terrible! Oh! I am sure I should
have died if anything like that had happened to me! But I have often
woke up from sleep, suddenly, feeling an indescribable, inexplicable
alarm and anxiety, as if I had been going through something terrible
and alarming; and yet, I had not the slightest idea what it was that I
had been going through, nor the very faintest recollection of any
fearful dream, or anything of that kind. Rather I seemed to be waking
from some condition of complete unconsciousness, like death."
"I know that feeling perfectly well," Dagobert said. "Perhaps it points
straight to the effect upon us of psychical influences external to us,
to which we are compelled to yield ourselves up, whether we choose or
not. Just as the mesmeric subject has no remembrance of the mesmeric
sleep, or of anything which happens in it. Perhaps that sense of fear
and anxiety which we feel on awaking (as we have said), of which the
cause is hidden from us, may be the lingering echo of some mighty spell
which has forced us out of ourselves."
"I remember very distinctly," Angelica said, "some four years ago, the
night before my fourteenth birthday, awaking in a condition of that
kind. I could not shake off the terror of it for several days
afterwards. But I strove in vain to remember anything about my dream
(if dream it was, that had so terrified me). I knew, and I know quite
well, that in the very dream itself I had told several people--my own
dear mother amongst them--what the dream was, several times. But all I
could remember when I woke was that I had told the dream. I could not
recall the slightest trace of what the dream had been."
"This strange psychical phenomenon," Dagobert said, "is closely
connected with the magnetic principle."
"Our conversation is getting more and more dreadful," said Madame von
G. "We are getting deep, and losing ourselves in matters I can't bear
even to think about. Moritz, I must beg you to tell us something
entertaining--outrageous even--that we may get away from this terrible
region of the supernatural."
"I should be very happy to try," said Moritz, "if you will just allow
me to tell one gruesome tale, which has been hovering on my lips for a
long time. At this moment all my being is so filled with it that I feel
that I could not talk about anything else."
"Discharge yourself, then," said Madame von G., "from the load of
awesomeness which so weighs upon you. My husband will be home
immediately, and then I should be so delighted to work through some
battle or other with you and him, or to hear you talk in your absorbed
manner about horses, or anything, to get me out of this overstrained
condition into which all this supernatural stuff, I must admit, puts
me."
"In my last campaign," said Moritz, "I made the acquaintance of a
Russian Lieutenant-Colonel, a Livonian by birth, scarcely thirty, who,
as chance willed it that we should be serving together before the
enemy for a considerable time, soon became my very intimate friend.
Bogislav--that was his Christian name--possessed every quality fitted
to gain for him, everywhere, the highest consideration and the most
sincere regard. He was tall and fine-looking, with an intellectual
face. He possessed masculine beauty, much mental cultivation, and was
kindliness itself, while brave as a lion. He could be particularly
cheerful and entertaining, especially over a glass of wine; but there
would often come over him, and overwhelm him, the thought of something
terrible which had happened to him, leaving traces of the most intense
horror and terror on his face. When this happened he would lapse into
silence, leave the company, and stroll about up and down, alone. In the
field, he used to ride all round the outposts at night, from one to
another, restlessly, only yielding to sleep when completely exhausted;
and as, in addition to this, he would often expose himself to the
extremest danger, without any special necessity, and seemed to seek, in
battle, death, which fled from him--for in the toughest hand-to-hand
engagement never a bullet touched him; no sword-cut came near him--it
seemed evident that his life had been marred by some irreparable
bereavement, or perhaps some rash deed.
"We stormed, and captured, a fortified castle on the French territory,
and remained quartered there for a day or two, to give the men some
rest. The rooms where Bogislav was quartered were but a few steps from
mine. In the night I was awakened by a gentle knocking at my door. I
asked who was there. My name was called out: I recognised Bogislav's
voice, and went to let him in. There he stood in his night-dress, with
a branched candlestick in his hand, pale as death, with his face
distorted, trembling in every limb, unable to utter a word.
"'For heaven's sake! what has happened?--what is the matter, dearest
Bogislav?' I cried. I took him to the arm-chair; made him swallow a
glass or two of the full-bodied wine which was on the table; held his
hand fast in mine, and spoke what comforting words I could, in my
ignorance of the cause of his strange condition.
"He recovered himself by degrees, heaved a deep sigh, and then began,
in a hollow voice: 'No! no! I shall go mad, unless death takes me; God
knows I throw myself with eager longing into his arms. To you, my
faithful Moritz, I will confide my fearful secret. I told you once that
I was in Naples a good many years ago. There I met the daughter of one
of the most distinguished families, and fell deeply in love with her.
She returned my affection, and, as her parents gave their approval, I
saw the fulfilment of my brightest hopes at hand. The wedding-day was
fixed, when there appeared on the scene a Sicilian Count, who came
between us with a most eager suit to my beloved and betrothed. I took
him to task; he insulted me; we met, and I sent my sword through his
body. I hastened to my love; I found her bathed in tears. She called me
the accursed murderer of the man she had adored, and repelled me with
every mark of disgust; screamed and wept in inconsolable sorrow; fell
down fainting, as if stung by a scorpion, when I touched her hand. Who
can describe my amazement! Her parents could not give the slightest
explanation of the sudden change in her. She had never given any
favourable heed to the Count's attentions.
"'Her father concealed me in his palazzo, and, with the most noble
zeal, took care that I should be enabled to leave Naples undiscovered.
Driven by all the furies, I pushed on to St. Petersburg without a halt.
It is not the faithlessness of my love which plays havoc with my life.
No! it is a terrible mystery. Since that unhappy day in Naples I have
been dogged and pursued by the terrors of hell itself. Often by day,
but still oftener by night, I hear--sometimes as if a long distance
away, sometimes as if quite close beside me--a deep death-groan. It is
the voice of the Count whom I killed! It makes my inmost soul quiver
with horror. I hear that horrible sound distinctly, close to my ear, in
the thick of the thunder of the heavy siege-guns, and the rattle of
musketry, and all the wild despair of madness awakes within me. This
very night----' Bogislav paused; and I, as well as he, was seized with
the wildest horror; for there came to our hearing a long-sustained,
heart-breaking wail of sorrow, as if proceeding from the stair outside.
Then it was as if some one raised himself, groaning and sighing, with
difficulty from the ground, and was coming towards us with heavy,
uncertain steps.
"At this Bogislav started up from his seat, and, with a wild glow in
his eyes, cried out, in a voice of thunder: 'Appear to me, abominable
one, if you only will! I am more than a match for you, and all the
spirits of hell that are at your disposal!'
"On this there came a tremendous crash, and----"
Just then the door of the drawing-room flew open with a startling
noise.
And just as Ottmar read those words, the door of the summer-house in
which the friends were sitting flew open, also with a startling noise,
and they saw a dark form, wrapped in a mantle, approaching slowly, with
noiseless footfalls, as of a spirit. They all gazed at this form, a
little startled, holding their breaths.
"Is it right," said Lothair at length, when the full light of the
lamps, falling upon his face, displayed their friend Cyprian. "Is it
right to try to frighten good folks with foolish playing the ghost?
However, I know, Cyprian, that you don't content yourself with studying
spirits and all sorts of strange, visionary matters; you would often
fain be a spook or ghost yourself. But where have you appeared from so
suddenly? How did you find out that we were here?"
"I came back to-day from my journey," Cyprian said. "I went at once to
see Theodore, Lothair, and Ottmar, but found none of them at home. In
the fullness of my annoyance I ran out here into the open; and chance
so willed it that, as I was returning to the town, I struck into the
walk which leads past this summer-house. Then I seemed to hear a
well-known voice; I peeped in at the window, and saw my worthy Serapion
Brethren, and heard Ottmar reading 'The Uncanny Guest.'"
"What," interrupted Ottmar, "you know my tale?"
"You forget," said Cyprian, "that it was from me that you got the
ingredients of the tale. It was I who told you of the 'Devil's Voice,'
the aerial music of Ceylon, who even gave you the idea of the sudden
appearing of the 'Uncanny Guest'; and I am curious to hear how you have
worked out this 'Thema' of mine. You see that it was a matter of course
that just when Ottmar had made the drawing-room door fly open I had
necessarily to do the like, and appear to you myself."
"Not as an uncanny guest, though," said Theodore, "but as a true and
faithful Serapion Brother, who, although he frightened me not a little,
as I must perforce admit, is a thousand times welcome to me all the
same."
"And," said Lothair, "if he insists on being a spirit, he must, at all
events, not be an unquiet spirit, but sit down and drink tea, without
making too much clattering with his cup, and listen to Ottmar, as to
whose tale I am all the more curious, that this time it is a working up
of a thema given to him by another."
Theodore, who was still easily excited after his recent illness, had
been affected by Cyprian's proceedings rather more than was desirable.
He was deadly pale, and it was evident that he had to put some
constraint on himself to appear at his ease.
Cyprian saw this, and was not a little concerned at what he had done.
"The truth is," he said, "that I had not thought about our friend's
having only recently recovered, and hardly that, from a severe illness.
I was acting contrarily to my own fundamental principle, which totally
prohibits the perpetration of jokes of this description, because it has
often happened that the terrible serious reality of the spirit-world
has come gripping in into jokes of this kind, resulting in very
terrific things. I remember, for instance----"
"Stop! stop!" cried Lothair. "I can't have any more interruptions.
Cyprian is on the point of carrying us away, after his manner, into
that dark world of spells where he is at home. Please to go on with
your story, Ottmar." Ottmar went on reading.
And in came a man, dressed in black from top to toe, with a pallid
face, and a set, serious expression. He went up to Madame von G.
with the most courtly bearing of a man of the highest rank, and in
well-selected terms, begged her to pardon him for having been so long
in arriving, though his invitation was of such old standing--but that,
to his regret, he had been detained by having to pay an unavoidable
visit first. Madame von G., unable to recover all in a moment from the
start which his entry had caused her, murmured a few indistinguishable
words, which seemed to amount to saying, would the stranger be kind
enough to take a seat. He drew a chair close to her, and opposite to
Angelica, sat down, and let his eyes pass over every member of the
company. Every one felt paralysed; none could utter a word. Then the
stranger began to speak, saying that he felt he stood doubly in need of
excuses; firstly, for arriving at such a time, and, secondly, for
having made his entrance in such a sudden manner, and so startlingly.
The latter, however, he was not to blame for, inasmuch as the door had
been thrown open in that violent manner by the servant whom he had
found in the hall. Madame von G., overcoming with difficulty the eery
feeling with which she was seized, inquired whom she had the honour of
welcoming. The stranger seemed not to notice this question, his
attention being fixed on Marguerite, who had suddenly become changed in
all her ways and bearing, kept tripping and dancing close up to the
stranger, and telling him, with constant tittering and laughter, and
with much volubility, in French, that they had all been in the very
thick of the most delightful ghost-stories, and that Captain Moritz had
just been saying that some evil spectre ought to make its appearance at
the very instant when he had come in. Madame von G., feeling all the
awkwardness of having to ask this stranger, who had said he came by
invitation, as to his name and so forth, but more distressed and
rendered uncomfortable by his presence, did not repeat her question,
but reprimanded Marguerite for her behaviour, which almost passed the
limits of the "_convenable_." The stranger put a stop to Marguerite's
chatter, turning to the others, and leading the conversation to some
event of indifference which had happened in the neighbourhood. Madame
von G. answered him. Dagobert tried to join in the conversation, which
soon dragged painfully along in detached, interrupted sentences; and
during this, Marguerite kept trilling couplets of French chansons, and
seemed to be trying steps, as if remembering the "tours" of the newest
gavotte, while the others were scarcely capable of moving. They all
felt their breasts oppressed; the presence of the stranger weighed upon
them like the sultry oppressiveness which precedes a thunderstorm. The
words died on their lips when they looked at the deathly pale face of
this uncanny guest. The markedly foreign accent with which he spoke
both French and German indicated that he was neither a German nor a
Frenchman.
Madame von G. breathed freely, with an enormous sense of relief, when
at length horses were heard drawing up at the door, and the voice of
her husband, Colonel von G., was distinguishable.
When the Colonel came in, and saw the stranger, he went up to him
quickly, saying, "Heartily welcome to my house, dear Count." Then
turning to his wife, he said, "This is Count S., a very dear friend of
mine; I made his acquaintance in the north, but met him afterwards in
the south."
Madame von G., whose anxiety began to be relieved, assured the Count,
with pleasant smiles, that it was only because her husband had omitted
to tell her of his visit that he had been received perhaps a little
strangely, and not as a welcome friend ought to have been. Then she
told the Colonel how the conversation had been running all the evening
upon the supernatural; how Moritz had been telling a dreadful story of
events which had happened to him and a friend of his, and that, at the
very moment when he had been saying, "There came a tremendous crash,"
the door had flown open, and the Count had come in.
"Very good indeed," said the Colonel, laughing; "they thought you were
a ghost, dear Count! I fancy I see traces of alarm and nervousness
about Angelica's face still, and Moritz looks as though he had scarcely
shaken off the excitement of the story he was telling. Even Dagobert
does not seem quite in his ordinary spirits. Really, Count, it is a
little too bad to take you for a _revenant_; don't you think so?"
"Perhaps," the Count replied; "I really may have something more or less
ghostly about me. A good deal is being said nowadays, about people who,
by virtue of some peculiar psychical quality, possess the power of
influencing others, so that they experience very remarkable effects. I
may be endowed with such a power."
"You are not serious, my dear Count," said Madame von G. "But there is
no doubt that people are discovering very wonderful mysteries
nowadays."
"People are pampering their curiosity, and weakening their minds over
nursery tales and absurd fancies," was the Count's reply. "We ought all
to take care not to allow ourselves to be infected by this curious
epidemic. However, I interrupted this gentleman at the most interesting
point of his story, and as none of his hearers would like to lose the
finale, the explanation of the mystery, I would beg him to go on with
it."
To Captain Moritz this stranger Count was not only uncomfortable and
uncanny, but utterly repugnant, in all the depths of his being. In his
words he found--all the more that he gave them out with a most
irritating, self-satisfied smile--something indescribably contemptuous
and insulting; and he replied, in an irritated tone, and with flashing
eyes, that he feared his nursery tales might interfere with the
pleasantness--the sense of enjoyment--which the Count had introduced
into the circle, so that he would prefer to say no more.
The Count seemed scarcely to notice what Moritz said. Playing with the
gold snuff-box which he had taken in his hand, he asked Madame von
G---- if the "lively" young lady was French. He meant Marguerite, who
kept dancing about the room, trilling. The Colonel went up to her and
asked her, half aloud, if she had gone out of her senses. Marguerite
slunk, abashed, to the tea-table, and sat down there quite quiet. The
Count now took up the conversation, and spoke, in an entertaining
manner, of this and the other events which had recently happened.
Dagobert was scarcely able to put in a word. Moritz stood, red as fire,
with gleaming eyes, as if waiting eagerly for the signal of attack.
Angelica appeared to be completely immersed in the piece of feminine
"work" at which she had set herself to labour. She did not raise an
eyelid. The company separated in complete discomfort.
"You are a fortunate man," Dagobert cried, when he and Moritz were
alone together. "Doubt no longer that Angelica is much attached to you.
Clearly did I read in her eyes to-day that she is devotedly in love
with you. But the devil is always busy, and sows his poisonous tares
amongst the blooming wheat. Marguerite is on fire with an insane
passion. She loves you with all the wild, passionate pain which only a
fiery temperament is capable of feeling. The senseless way in which she
behaved tonight was the effect of an irresistible outbreak of the
wildest jealousy. When Angelica let fall the handkerchief--when you
took it up and gave it to her--when you kissed her hand--the furies of
hell possessed that poor Marguerite. And you are to blame for that. You
used formerly to take the greatest pains to pay every kind of attention
to that very beautiful French girl. I know well enough that it was only
Angelica whom you had in your mind. Still, those falsely directed
lightnings struck, and set on fire. And now the misfortune is there;
and I do not know how the matter will end without terrible tumult and
trouble."
"Marguerite be hanged (if I may use such an expression)," said Moritz.
"If Angelica loves me--and ah! I can't believe, quite, that she does--I
am the happiest and the most blest of men, and care nothing about all
the Marguerites in the world, nor their foolishnesses neither. But
another fear has come into my mind. This uncanny, stranger Count, who
came in amongst us like some dark, gloomy mystery--doesn't he seem to
place himself, somehow, most hostilely between her and me? I feel, I
scarce know how, as if some reminiscence came forward out of the dark
background--I could almost describe it as a dream--which reminiscence,
or dream, whichever it may be, brings this Count to my memory under
terrible circumstances of some sort. I feel as though, wherever he
makes his appearance, some awful misfortune must come flashing out of
the depths of the darkness as a result of his conjurations. Did you
notice how often his eyes rested on Angelica, and how, when they did, a
feeble flush tinted his pallid cheeks, and disappeared again rapidly?
The monster has designs upon my darling; and that is why the words
which he addressed to me sounded so insulting. But I will oppose him
and resist him to the very death!"
Dagobert said the Count was a supernatural sort of fellow, no doubt,
with something very eery and spectral about him, and that it would be
as well to keep a sharp look-out on his proceedings, though, perhaps,
he thought there was less in, or behind, him than one would suppose;
and that the uncanny feelings which everybody had experienced with
regard to him were chiefly attributable to the excited state in which
they had all been when he made his appearance. "Let us face all this
disquieting affair," said Dagobert, "with firm courage and unshakable
confidence. No dark power will bend the head which holds itself up with
true bravery and indomitable resolution."
A considerable time had elapsed. The Count, whose visits to the
Colonel's house increased in frequency, had rendered himself almost
indispensable. It was universally agreed, now, that the accusation
against him of being uncanny recoiled on those who made it. "He might
very well have styled us uncanny people, with our white faces and odd
behaviour," as said Madame von G----. Everything he said evinced a
store of the most valuable and various information; and although, being
an Italian, he spoke with a foreign accent, his command of the German
language was most perfect and fluent. His narratives had a fire which
bore the hearers irresistibly along, so that even Moritz and Dagobert,
hostile as were their feelings to this stranger, forgot their
repugnance to him when he talked, and when a pleasant smile broke out
over his pale, but handsome and expressive face, and they hung upon his
lips, like Angelica and the others.
The Colonel's friendship with him had arisen in a way which proved him
to be one of the noblest-minded of men. Chance had brought them
together in the far north, and there the Count, in the most unselfish
and disinterested manner, came to the Colonel's aid in a difficulty in
which he found himself involved, which might have had the most
disastrous consequences to his fortune, if not to his good name and
honour. Deeply sensible of all that he owed him, the Colonel hung on
him with all his soul.
"It is time," the Colonel said to his wife one day when they were alone
together, "that I should tell you the principal reason why the Count is
here. You remember that he and I, when we were in P----, four years
ago, grew more and more intimate and inseparable, so that at last we
occupied two rooms which opened one into the other. He happened to come
into my room one morning early, and he saw the little miniature of
Angelica, which I had with me, lying on my writing-table. As he looked
more and more closely at it, he lost his self-command in a strange way.
Not able to answer me, he kept gazing at it. He could not take his eyes
from it. He cried out excitedly that he had never seen a more beautiful
creature--had never before known what love was--it was now blazing up
in the depths of his heart. I jested about the extraordinary effect of
the picture on him--called him a second Kalaf, and congratulated him on
the fact that my good Angelica was not a Turandot. At last I told him
pretty clearly that at his time of life--for, though not exactly
elderly, he could not be said to be a very young man--this romantic way
of falling in love with a portrait rather astonished me. But he vowed
most vehemently--nay, with every mark of that passionate excitement,
almost verging on insanity, which belongs to his country--that he loved
Angelica inexpressibly, and, if he were not to be dashed into the
profoundest depths of despair, I must allow him to gain her affection
and her hand. It is for this that the Count has come here to our house.
He fancies he is certain that she is not ill-disposed to him, and he
yesterday laid his formal proposal before me. What do you think of the
affair?"
Madame von G---- could not explain why his latter words shot through
her being like some sudden shock. "Good heavens," she cried, "_that_
Count for our Angelica! that utter stranger!"
"Stranger!" echoed the Colonel with darkened brow; "the Count a
stranger! the man to whom I owe my honour, my freedom, nay, perhaps my
life! I know he is not quite so young as he has been, and perhaps is
not altogether suited to Angelica in point of age; but he is of high
lineage, and rich, very rich."
"And without asking Angelica," said Madame von G----. "Very likely she
may not have any such liking for him as he, in his fondness, imagines."
The Colonel started from his chair, and placed himself in front of her
with gleaming eyes. "Have I ever given you cause to imagine," he said,
"that I am one of those idiotic, tyrannical fathers who force their
daughters to marry against their inclinations, in a disgraceful way?
Spare me your absurd romanticisms and sentimentalities. Marriages may
be made without any such extraordinary, fanciful love at first sight,
and so forth. Angelica is all ears when he talks; she looks at him with
most kindly favour; she blushes like a rose when he kisses her hand,
which she willingly leaves in his. And that is how an innocent girl
expresses that inclination which truly blesses a man. There is no
occasion for any of that romantic love which so often runs in your
sex's heads in such a disturbing fashion."
"I have an idea," said Madame von G----, "that Angelica's heart is not
so free as, perhaps, she herself imagines it is."
"Nonsense," cried the Colonel, and was on the point of breaking out in
a passion, when the door opened, and Angelica came in, with the
loveliest smile of the most ingenuous simplicity. The Colonel, at once
losing all his irritation, went to her, took her hand, kissed her on
the brow, and sat down close beside her. He spoke of the Count,
praising his noble exterior, intellectual superiority, character, and
disposition; and then asked her if she thought she could care for him.
She answered that at first he had appeared very strange and eery to
her, but that now those feelings had quite disappeared, and that she
liked him very much.
"Heaven be thanked then!" cried the Colonel. "Thus it was ordained to
turn out, for my comfort, for my happiness. Count S--- loves you, my
darling child, with all his heart. He asks for your hand, and you won't
refuse him." But scarcely had he uttered those words when Angelica,
with a deep sigh, sank back as if insensible. Her mother caught her in
her arms, casting a significant glance at the Colonel, who gazed
speechless at the poor child, who was as pale as death. But she
recovered herself; a burst of tears ran down her cheeks, and she cried,
in a heart-breaking voice, "The Count! the terrible Count! oh, no, no;
never, never!"
As gently as possible the Colonel asked her why it was that the Count
was so terrible to her. Then Angelica told him that at the instant when
he had said that the Count loved her, that dream which she dreamt four
years before, on the night before her fourteenth birthday--from which
she awoke in such deadly terror without being able to remember the
images or incidents of it in the very slightest--had come back to her
memory quite clearly.
"I thought," she said, "I was walking in a beautiful garden where there
were strange bushes and flowers which I had never seen the like of
before. Suddenly I found myself close before a wonderful tree with dark
leaves, large flowers, and a curious perfume something like that of the
elder. Its branches were swaying and making a delicious rustling, and
it seemed to be making signs inviting me to rest under its shade.
Irresistibly impelled by some invisible power, I sank down on the grass
which was under the tree. Then strange tones of complaint or lamenting
seemed to come through the air, stirring the tree like the touch of
some breeze; and it began to utter sighs and moans. And I was seized by
an indescribable pain and sorrow; a deep compassion arose in my heart,
I could not tell why. Then, suddenly, a burning beam of light darted
into my breast, and seemed to break my heart in two. I tried to cry
out, but the cry could not make its way from my heart, oppressed with a
nameless anguish--it became a faint sigh. But the beam which had
pierced my heart was the gleam of a pair of eyes which were gazing on
me from under the shade of the branches. Just then the eyes were quite
close to me; and a snow-white hand became visible, describing circles
all round me. And those circles kept getting narrower and narrower,
winding round me like threads of fire, so that, at last, the web of
them was so dense and so close that I could not move. At the same time
I felt that the frightful gaze of those terrible eyes was assuming the
mastery over my inmost being, and utterly possessing my whole existence
and personality. The one idea to which it now clung, as if to a feeble
thread, was, to me, a martyrdom of death-anguish. But the tree bent
down its blossoms towards me, and out of them spoke the beautiful
voice of a youth, which said, 'Angelica! I will save you--I will save
you--but----'"
Angelica was interrupted. Captain von P---- was announced. He came to
see the Colonel on some matter of duty. As soon as Angelica heard his
name she cried out with the bitterest sorrow, in such a voice as bursts
only from a breast wounded with the deepest love-anguish--while tears
fell down her cheeks--"Moritz! oh, Moritz!"
Captain von P---- heard those words as he came in; he saw Angelica,
bathed in tears, stretch out her hands to him. Like a man beside
himself he dashed his forage cap to the ground, fell at Angelica's
feet, caught her in his arms, as she sank down overwhelmed with rapture
and sorrow, and pressed her fervently to his heart.
The Colonel contemplated this little scene in speechless amazement.
Madame von G---- said: "I thought this was how it was; but I was not
sure!"
"Captain von P----," said the Colonel angrily, "what is there between
you and my daughter?"
Moritz, quickly recovering himself, placed Angelica--more dead than
alive--gently down on the couch, picked up his cap, advanced to the
Colonel with a face red as fire, and eyes fixed on the ground, and
declared that he loved Angelica unutterably; but that, upon his honour,
until that moment, not a word approaching to a declaration of his
feelings had crossed his lips. He had been but too seriously doubtful
as to its being possible that Angelica could return his love. He said
it was only at this moment--which he could not possibly have
anticipated--that the bliss accorded to him by heaven had been fully
disclosed to him; and that he trusted he should not be repulsed by the
noblest hearted of mankind, the tenderest of fathers, when he implored
him to bestow his blessing on a union sealed by the purest and
sincerest affection.
The Colonel gazed at Moritz, and then at Angelica, with looks of gloom;
then he paced up and down with folded arms like one who strives to
arrive at a resolution. He paused before his wife, who had taken
Angelica in her arms and was whispering to her words of consolation.
"What," he inquired, "has this silly dream of yours to do with
Count----?"
Angelica threw herself at his feet, kissed his hands, bathed them in
her tears, and said, half-audibly, "Oh, father! dearest father! those
terrible eyes which mastered my whole being were the Count's eyes. It
was his spectral hand which wove round me those meshes of fire. But the
voice of comfort which spoke to me out of the perfumed blossoms of the
wondrous tree, was the voice of Moritz--my Moritz!"
"Your Moritz!" cried the Colonel, turning so quickly that he nearly
threw Angelica down. He continued, speaking to himself in a lower tone:
"Thus a father's wise resolve, and the offer of a grand and noble
gentleman, are to be cast to the winds, for the sake of childish
imaginations, and a clandestine love affair." And he walked up and down
as before. At last, addressing Moritz, he said--
"Captain von P----, you know very well what a high opinion of you I
have. I could not have wished for a better son-in-law. But I have
promised my daughter to Count S----, to whom I am bound by the deepest
obligations by which one man can be bound to another. At the same time,
please do not suppose that I am going to play the part of the obstinate
and tyrannical father. I shall hasten to the Count at once. I shall
tell him everything. Your love will be the cause of a cruel difference
between me and this gentleman. It may cost me my life. No matter; it
can't be helped. Wait here till I come back."
Moritz warmly declared that he would sooner face death a hundred times
than that the Colonel should run the very slightest risk; but the
Colonel hurried away without reply.
As soon as he had gone, the lovers fell into each other's arms, and
vowed unalterable fidelity. Angelica said that it was not until her
father told her of the Count's views with regard to her, that she felt,
in the depths of her soul, how unspeakably precious and dear Moritz was
to her, and that she would rather die than marry any one else. Also
that she had felt certain for a long time, that he loved her just as
deeply. Then they both bethought themselves of all the occasions when
they had given any betrayal of their love for each other; and, in
short, were in a condition of the highest enjoyment and blissfulness,
like two children, forgetting all about the Colonel and his anger and
opposition. Madame von G----, who had long watched the growth of this
affection, and approved of Angelica's choice with all her heart,
promised, with deep emotion, to leave no stone unturned to prevent the
Colonel from entering into an alliance which she abhorred, without
precisely knowing why.
When an hour or so had passed, the door opened and, to the surprise of
all, Count S---- came in, followed by the Colonel, whose eyes were
gleaming. The Count went up to Angelica, took her hand, and looked at
her with a smile of bitter pain. Angelica shrank, and murmured almost
inaudibly, "Oh! those eyes!"
"You turn pale, Mademoiselle," said the Count, "just as you did when
first I came into this house. Do you truly look upon me as a terrible
spectre? No, no; do not be afraid of me, Angelica. I do but love you
with all the fervour and passion of a younger man. I had no knowledge
that you had given away your heart, when I was foolish enough to make
an offer for your hand. Even your father's promise does not give me the
slightest claim to a happiness which it is yours alone to bestow. You
are free, Mademoiselle. Even the sight of me shall no longer remind
you of the moments of sadness which I have caused you. Soon, perhaps
to-morrow, I shall go back to my own country."
"Moritz! My Moritz!" Angelica cried in the utmost joy and delight, and
threw herself on her lover's breast. The Count trembled in every limb;
his eyes gleamed with an unwonted fire, his lips twitched convulsively;
he uttered a low inarticulate sound. But turning quickly to Madame von
G---- with some indifferent question, he succeeded in mastering his
emotion.
But the Colonel cried, again and again, "What nobility of mind! What
loftiness of character! Who is there like this man of men--my heart's
own friend for ever!" Then he pressed Moritz, Angelica, and his own
wife, to his heart, and said laughingly, that he did not care to hear
another syllable about the wicked plot they had been laying against
him, and hoped, too, that Angelica would have no more trouble with
spectral eyes.
It being now well on in the day, the Colonel begged Moritz and the
Count to remain and have dinner. Dagobert was sent for, and arrived in
high spirits.
When they sat down to table, Marguerite was missing. It appeared she
had shut herself up in her room, saying she was unwell and unable to
join the company. "I do not know," said Madame von G----, "what has
been the matter with Marguerite for some time; she has been full of the
strangest fancies, laughing and crying without apparent reason. Really,
she is at times almost unendurable."
"Your happiness is Marguerite's death," Dagobert whispered to Moritz.
"Spirit-seer!" answered Moritz in the same tone, "do not mar my joy."
The Colonel had never been in better spirits or happier, and Madame von
G---- had never been so pleased in the depths of her heart, relieved as
she was from anxieties which had often been present with her before.
When, in addition to this, Dagobert was revelling in the most brilliant
high-spirits, and the Count, forgetting his pain, suffered the stores
of his much experienced mind to stream forth in rich abundance. It will
be seen that our couple of lovers were encircled by a rich garland of
gladness.
Evening was coming on, the noblest wines were pearling in the glasses,
toasts to the health of the betrothed pair were drunk enthusiastically;
when suddenly the door opened and Marguerite came tottering in, in
white night-gear, with her hair down, pale, and distorted, like death
itself.
"Marguerite, what extraordinary conduct!" the Colonel cried.
But, paying no heed to him, she dragged herself up to Moritz, placed
her ice-cold hand on his breast, laid a gentle kiss on his brow,
murmured in a faint, hollow voice, "The kiss of the dying brings luck
to the happy bridegroom," and sank on the floor.
"This poor foolish girl is in love with Moritz," Dagobert whispered to
the Count, who answered--
"I know. I suppose she has carried her foolishness so far as to take
poison."
"Good heavens!" cried Dagobert, starting up and hurrying to the
arm-chair where they had placed poor Marguerite. Angelica and her
mother were busy besprinkling her and rubbing her forehead with
essences. When Dagobert went up she opened her eyes.
"Keep yourself quiet, my dear child," said Madame von G----; "you are
not very well, but you will soon be better--you will soon be better!"
Marguerite answered in a feeble, hollow voice, "Yes; it will soon be
over. I have taken poison."
Angelica and her mother screamed aloud.
"Thousand devils!" cried the Colonel. "The mad creature! Run for the
doctor! Quick! The first and best that's to be found; bring him here
instantly!"
The servants, Dagobert himself, were setting off in all haste.
"Stop!" cried the Count, who had been sitting very quietly hitherto,
calmly and leisurely emptying a beaker of his favourite wine--the fiery
Syracuse. "If Marguerite has taken poison, there is no need to send for
a doctor, for, in this case, I am the very best doctor that could
possibly be called in. Leave matters to me."
He went to Marguerite, who was lying profoundly insensible, only giving
an occasional convulsive twitch. He bent over her, and was seen to take
a small box out of his pocket, from which he took something between his
fingers, and this he gently rubbed over Marguerite's neck and the
region of her heart. Then coming away from her, he said to the others,
"She has taken opium; but she can be saved by means which I can
employ."
By the Count's directions Marguerite was taken upstairs to her room,
where he remained with her alone. Meanwhile, Madame von G---- had found
the phial which had contained the opium-drops prescribed some time
previously for herself. The unfortunate girl had taken the whole of the
contents of the phial.
"The Count is really a wonderful man," Dagobert said, with a slight
touch of irony. "He divines everything. The moment he saw Marguerite he
knew she had taken poison, and next he knew exactly the name and colour
of it."
In half-an-hour the Count came and assured the company that Marguerite
was out of danger, as far as her life was concerned. With a side-glance
at Moritz, he added that he hoped to remove all cause of mischief from
her mind as well. He desired that a maid should sit up with the
patient, whilst he himself would spend the night in the next room, to
be at hand in case anything fresh should transpire; but he wished to
prepare and strengthen himself for this by a few more glasses of wine;
for which end he sat down at table with the other gentlemen, whilst
Angelica and her mother, being upset by what had happened, withdrew.
The Colonel was greatly annoyed at this silly trick, as he called it,
of Marguerite's, and Moritz and Dagobert felt very eery and uncanny
over the whole affair; but the more out of tune they were the more did
the Count give the rein to a joviality which had never been seen in him
before, and which, in sober truth, had a certain amount of gruesomeness
about it.
"This Count," Dagobert said to Moritz, as they walked away, "has a
something most eerily repugnant to me about him, in some strange
inexplicable way. I cannot help a feeling that there must be something
exceedingly mysterious connected with him."
"Ah!" said Moritz, "there is a weight as of lead on my heart. I am
filled with a dim foreboding that some dark mischance threatens my
love."
That night the Colonel was aroused from sleep by a courier from the
Residenz. Next morning he came to his wife, looking rather pale, and
constraining himself to a calmness which he was far from feeling, said,
"We have to be parted again, dearest child. There's going to be another
campaign, after this little bit of a rest. I shall have to march off
with the regiment as soon as ever I can, perhaps this evening."
Madame von G---- was greatly startled; she broke out into bitter
weeping. The Colonel said, by way of consolation, that he felt sure
this campaign would end as gloriously as the last--that he felt in such
admirable spirits about it that he was certain nothing could go amiss.
"What you had better do," he said, "is, take Angelica with you to the
country-house, and stay there till we send the enemy to the rightabout
again. I am providing you with a companion who will keep you amused,
and prevent your feeling lonely. Count S---- is going with you."
"What!" cried Madame von G----. "Good heavens! the Count to go with
us!--Angelica's rejected lover--that deceitful Italian, who is hiding
his annoyance in the bottom of his heart, only to bring it out in
fullest force at the first proper opportunity; this Count who--I cannot
say why--seems more intensely antipathetic to me since yesterday than
ever?"
"Good God!" the Colonel cried; "there really is no bearing with the
nonsensical ideas--the silly dreams--which your sex gets into its head.
The magnanimity of soul of a man of his firmness and fineness of
character is too much for you to comprehend. The Count passed the whole
night in the room next to Marguerite's, as he said he should do. He was
the first person I told the news of the fresh campaign to. It would
scarcely be possible for him to go home now. This was very annoying to
him, and I gave him the option of going to our country-place and
staying there. He accepted my offer, after much hesitation, and gave me
his word of honour that he would do everything in his power to take
care of you, and make the time of our separation pass as quickly as
possible. You know what obligations I am under to him. My country-place
is, just now, a real asylum for him; could I refuse him that?"
Madame von G---- could say nothing further. The Colonel did as he had
said he would. In the course of the evening the trumpets sounded boot
and saddle, and every description of nameless pain and heart-breaking
sorrow came upon the loving ones.
A few days after, when Marguerite had recovered, the three ladies went
off to the country-house. The Count followed, with a number of
servants.
And at first, the Count, showing the utmost delicacy of feeling, was
careful never to enter the ladies' presence except when they sent for
him specially; at all other times he remained in his own rooms, or went
for solitary walks.
At first the campaign seemed to go rather in favour of the enemy, but
important successes were soon scored against him, and the Count was
always the very first to hear the news of those operations, and
particularly the most accurate and minute intelligence of what was
happening to the regiment which the Colonel commanded. In the bloodiest
engagements neither the Colonel nor Moritz had met with so much as a
scratch; and the despatches from headquarters confirmed this.
Thus the Count always appeared to the ladies in the character of a
heavenly messenger of victory and good-fortune; besides this, all his
behaviour betokened the most deep and sincere attachment to Angelica,
which he exhibited to her as the tenderest of fathers might have done,
occupied constantly about her happiness. Both she and her mother were
compelled to admit to themselves that the Colonel's opinion of this
tried friend of his was the correct one, and that all their--and other
people's--prejudices against him had been the most preposterous
fancies. At the same time Marguerite seemed to be quite cured of her
foolish passion, and to have become the same gay, talkative, sprightly
French lady whom we saw at an earlier period.
A letter from the Colonel to his wife, enclosing one from Moritz to
Angelica, dispelled the last remnant of anxiety. The enemy's capital
city was captured, and an armistice established.
Angelica was floating in a sea of blissfulness; and always it was the
Count who spoke of the brave deeds of Moritz, and of the happiness
which was opening its blossoms for the lovely future bride. After such
speeches he would take Angelica's hand, press it to his heart, and ask
if he were still as hateful to her as ever. With blushes and tears she
would assure him that she had never hated him, but that she had loved
Moritz too deeply and exclusively not to dread the idea of any other
suitor for her hand. And the Count would say, very solemnly and
seriously, "Look on me as your true, sincere, fatherly friend,
Angelica," breathing a gentle kiss upon her forehead, which she
suffered without ill-will; for it felt much like one of her father's
kisses, which he used to apply about the same place.
It was almost expected that the Colonel would very soon be home again,
when a letter from him arrived containing the terrible news that Moritz
had been set upon by some armed peasants, as he was passing with his
orderly through a village. Those peasants shot him down at the side of
the brave trooper, who managed to fight his way through; but the
peasants carried Moritz away. Thus the joy with which the house was
inspired was suddenly turned into the deepest and most inconsolable
sorrow.
The Colonel's household was all in busy movement from roof to ceiling.
Servants in gay liveries were hurrying to and fro; carriages filled
with guests were rattling into the courtyard, the Colonel in person
receiving them with his new order on his breast.
In her room upstairs sate Angelica in wedding-dress, beaming in the
full pride of her loveliness: her mother was with her.
"My dearest child," said the latter, "you have of your own free will
accepted Count S---- as your husband. Much as jour father desired this,
he has never at all insisted on it since poor Moritz's death; indeed,
it seems to me as though he had had much of the feeling which (I cannot
hide from you) I have had myself; it is utterly incomprehensible to me
how you can have forgotten poor Moritz so soon. However, the time has
come; you are giving your hand to the Count. Examine your own heart. It
is not yet too late. May the remembrance of him whom you have forgotten
never fall across your heart like some black shadow."
"Never," cried Angelica, while the tears ran down her cheeks, "never
can I forget Moritz. Never; oh! never can I love as I loved _him_! What
I feel for the Count is something totally different. I cannot explain
how it is that the Count has made me feel this irresistible attachment
to him; but feel it I do, in every fibre of my being. It is not that I
love him: I do not; I cannot love him in the way I loved Moritz; but
I feel as if I could not, and cannot live apart from him--without
him--independently of him. That it is only through him that I can think
and feel. A spirit voice seems perpetually enjoining me to cleave to
him as a wife; telling me that I _must_ do so, and that unless I do
there is no further, or other life possible for me here below. And I
obey this voice, which I believe to be the mysterious prompting of
Providence."
The maid here came in to say that Marguerite, who had been missing
since the early part of the morning, had not made her appearance yet,
but that the Gardener had just brought a little note which she had
given him, with instructions to deliver it when he had finished his
work and taken the last of the flowers to the Castle. It was as
follows:--
"You will never see me more; a dark mystery drives me from your house.
I implore you--you, who have been to me as a tender mother--not to have
me followed, or brought back by force. My second attempt to kill myself
will be more successful than the first. May Angelica enjoy to the full
that bliss, the idea of which pierces my heart. Farewell for ever!
Forget the unfortunate Marguerite."
"What is this?" cried Madame von G----; "the poor soul seems to have
set her whole mind upon destroying our happiness. Must she always come
in your way just as you are going to give your hand to the man of your
choice? Let her go; the foolish, ungrateful thing, whom I treated and
cared for as if she had been my own daughter. I shall certainly never
trouble my head about her any more."
Angelica cried bitterly at the loss of her whom she had looked on as a
sister; her mother implored her not to waste a thought on the foolish
creature at such an important time.
The guests were assembled in the _salon_, ready, as soon as the
appointed hour should come, to go to the little chapel where a catholic
priest was to marry the couple. The Colonel led in the bride. Everyone
marvelled at her beauty, which was enhanced by the simple richness of
her dress. The Count had not arrived. One quarter of an hour succeeded
another, and still he did not make his appearance. The Colonel went to
the Count's rooms. There he found his valet, who said his master, just
when he was fully dressed for the ceremony, had suddenly felt unwell,
and had gone out for a turn in the park, hoping the fresh air would
revive him, and forbidding him, the valet, to follow him.
The Colonel could not explain to himself why it was that this
proceeding of the Count's fell on him with such a weight--why it was
that an idea immediately came to him that something terrible had
happened. He sent back to the house to say that the Count would come
very shortly, and that a celebrated doctor, who was one of the guests,
was to be privately told to come out to him as quickly as possible. As
soon as he came, he, the Colonel and the valet, went to search for the
Count in the park. Striking out of the main alley, they went to an open
space surrounded by thick shrubberies, which the Colonel remembered to
have been a favourite resort of the Count's; and there they saw him
sitting on a mossy bank, dressed all in black, with his star sparkling
on his breast, and his hands folded, leaning his back against an
elder-tree in full blossom, staring, motionless, before him. They
shuddered at the sight, for his hollow, darkly-gleaming eyes were
evidently devoid of the faculty of vision.
"Count S----! what has happened?" the Colonel cried; but there was no
answer, no movement, not the slightest appearance of respiration. The
doctor hurried forward; tore off the Count's coat, waistcoat, and
neckcloth, and rubbed his brow: turning then to the Colonel, he said in
hollow tones, "Human help is useless here. He is dead!--there has been
an attack of apoplexy!"
The valet broke out into loud lamentations. The Colonel, mastering his
inward horror with all his soldierly self-control, ordered him to hold
his peace, saying, "If we are not careful what we are about, we shall
kill Angelica on the spot." He caused the body to be taken up and
carried by unfrequented paths to a pavilion at some distance, of which
he happened to have the key in his pocket. There he left it under the
valet's charge, and, with the doctor, went back to the chateau again.
Hovering between one resolve and another, he could not make up his mind
whether to conceal the whole matter from Angelica, or tell her, calmly
and quietly, the terrible truth.
When he came into the house he found everything in the utmost confusion
and consternation. Angelica, in the middle of an animated conversation,
had suddenly closed her eyes, and fallen into a state of profound
insensibility. She was lying on a sofa in an adjoining room. Her face
was not pale, nor in the least distorted; the roses of her cheeks
bloomed brighter and fresher than ever, and her face shone with an
indescribable expression of happiness and delight. She was as one
penetrated with the highest blissfulness. The doctor, after observing
her with the minutest carefulness of examination for a long while,
declared that there was not the least cause for anxiety in her
condition, nor the slightest danger. He said she was (although it was
entirely inexplicable _how_ she was) in a magnetized condition, and
that he would not venture to awaken her from it: she would wake from it
of her own accord presently.
Meanwhile mysterious whisperings arose amongst the guests. The sudden
death of the Count seemed to have somehow got wind, and they all
dispersed in gloomy silence. One could hear the carriages rolling away.
Madame von G----, bending over Angelica, watched her every respiration.
She seemed to be whispering words, but none could hear or understand
them. The doctor would not allow her to be undressed; even her gloves
were not to be taken off; he said it would be hurtful even to touch
her.
All at once she opened her eyes, started up from the sofa, and, with a
resounding cry of "Here he is!" "Here he is!" went rushing out of the
room, through the ante-chamber and down the stairs.
"She is out of her mind," cried Madame von G----. "Oh, God of Heaven,
she is mad!" "No, no," the Doctor said, "this is not madness; there is
something altogether unheard of taking place," with which he hastened
after her down the steps.
He saw her speeding like an arrow, with her arms lifted up above her
head, out of the gate and away along the broad high road, her rich
lace-ornamented dress fluttering, and her hair, which had come down,
streaming in the wind.
A man on horseback was coming tearing up towards her; when he reached
her, he sprang from his horse and clasped her in his arms. Two other
riders who were following him drew rein and dismounted.
The Colonel, who had followed the doctor in hot haste, stood gazing on
the group in speechless astonishment, rubbing his forehead, as if
striving to keep firm hold of his thoughts.
It was Moritz who was holding Angelica fast pressed to his heart;
beside him stood Dagobert, and a fine-looking young man in the handsome
uniform of a Russian General.
"No," cried Angelica over and over again, as the lovers embraced
one another, "I was never untrue to you, my beloved Moritz." And
Moritz cried, "Oh, I know that; I know that quite well, my darling
angel-child. He enchanted you by his satanic arts."
And he more carried than led her back to the chateau, while the others
followed in silence. Not till he came to the castle did the Colonel
give a profound sigh, as if it was only then that he came fully to his
senses; and, looking round him with questioning glances, said, "What
miracles! what extraordinary events!"
"Everything will be explained," said Moritz, presenting the stranger to
the Colonel as General Bogislav von Se----n, a Russian officer, his
most intimate friend.
As soon as they came into the chateau, Moritz, with a wild look, and
unheeding the Colonel's alarmed amazement, cried out, "Where is Count
von S----i?"
"Among the dead!" said the Colonel, in a hollow voice, "he was seized
with apoplexy an hour ago."
Angelica shrank and shuddered. "Yes," she said, "that I know. At the
very instant when he died I felt as though some crystal thing within my
being shivered, and broke with a 'kling.' I fell into an extraordinary
state. I think I must have gone on carrying that frightful dream (which
I told you of) further, because, when I came to look at matters again,
I found that those terrible eyes had no more power over me; the web of
fire loosened and broke away. Heavenly blissfulness was all about me. I
saw Moritz, my own Moritz; he was coming to me. I flew to meet him,"
and she clasped her arms round him as if she thought he was going to
escape from her again.
"Praised be Heaven," said Madame von G----. "Now the weight has gone
from my heart which was stifling it. I am freed from that inexpressible
anxiety and alarm which came upon me at the instant when Angelica
promised to marry that terrible Count. I always felt as though she were
betrothing herself to mysterious, unholy powers with her betrothal
ring."
General von Se----n expressed a desire to see the Count's remains, and
when the body was uncovered and he saw the pale countenance now fixed
in death, he cried, "By Heaven, it is he! It is none other than
himself."
Angelica had fallen into a gentle sleep in Moritz's arms, and had been
carried to her bed, the doctor thinking that nothing more beneficial
could have happened to her than this slumber, which would rest the
life-spirits, overstrained as they had been. He considered that in this
manner a threatening illness would be naturally dispelled.
"Now," said the Colonel, "it is time to solve all those riddles and
explain all those miraculous events. Tell us, Moritz, what angel of
Heaven has called you back to life?"
"You know," said Moritz, "all about the murderous and treacherous
attack which was made upon me near S----, though the armistice had been
proclaimed. I was struck by a bullet, and fell from my horse. How long
I lay in that deathlike state I cannot tell. When I first awoke to a
dim consciousness, I was being moved somewhere, travelling. It was dark
night; several voices were whispering near me. They were speaking
French. Thus I knew that I was badly wounded and in the hands of the
enemy. This thought came upon me with all its horror, and I sank again
into a deep fainting fit. After that came a condition which has only
left me the recollection of a few hours of violent headache; but at
last, one morning, I awoke to complete consciousness. I found myself in
a comfortable, almost sumptuous bed, with silk curtains and great
cords and tassels. The room was lofty, and had silken hangings and
richly-gilt tables and chairs, in the old French style. A strange man
was bending over me and looking closely into my face. He hurried to a
bell-rope and pulled at it hard. Presently the doors opened, and two
men came in, the elder of whom had on an old-fashioned embroidered
coat, and the cross of Saint Louis. The younger came to me, felt my
pulse, and said to the elder, in French, 'All danger is over; he is
saved.' The elder gentleman now introduced himself to me as the
Chevalier de T----. The house was his in which I found myself. He said
he had chanced, on a journey, to be passing through the village at the
very moment when the treacherous attack was made upon me, and the
peasants were going to plunder me. He succeeded in rescuing me, had me
put into a conveyance, and brought to his chateau, which was quite
out of the way of the military routes of communication. Here his own
body-surgeon had applied himself to the arduous task of curing me of my
very serious wound in the head. He said, in conclusion, that he loved
my nation, which had shown him kindness in the stormy revolutionary
times, and was delighted to be able to be of service to me. Everything
in his chateau which could conduce to my comfort or amusement was
freely at my disposal, and he would not, on any pretence, allow me to
leave him until all risk, whether from my wound or the insecurity of
the routes, should be over. All that he regretted was the impossibility
of communicating with my friends for the moment, so as to let them know
where I was.
"The Chevalier was a widower, and his sons were not with him, so that
there were no other occupants of the chateau but himself, the surgeon,
and a great retinue of servants. It would only weary you were I to tell
you at length how I grew better and better under the care of the
exceedingly able surgeon, and how the Chevalier did everything he
possibly could to make my hermit's life agreeable to me. His
conversation was more intellectual, and his views less shallow, than is
usually the case with his countrymen. He talked on arts and sciences,
but avoided the more novel and recent developments of them as much as
possible. I need not tell you that my sole thought was Angelica, that
it burned my soul to know that she was plunged in sorrow for my death.
I constantly urged the Chevalier to get letters conveyed to our
headquarters. He always declined to do so, on account of the
uncertainty of the attempt, as it seemed as good as certain that
fighting was going on again; but he consoled me by promising that as
soon as I was quite convalescent he would have me sent home safe and
sound, happen what might. From what he said I was led to suppose that
the campaign was going on again, and to the advantage of the allies,
and that he was avoiding telling me so in words from a wish to spare my
feelings. But I need only mention one or two little incidents to
justify the strange conjectures which Dagobert has formed in his mind.
I was nearly free from fever, when one night I suddenly fell into an
incomprehensible condition of dreaminess, the recollection of which
makes me shudder, though that recollection is of the dimmest and most
shadowy kind. I saw Angelica, but her form seemed to be dissolving away
indistinctly in a trembling radiance, and I strove in vain to hold it
fast before me. Another being pressed in between us, laid herself on my
breast, and grasped my heart within me, in the depths of my entity; and
while I was perishing in the most glowing torment, I was at the same
time penetrated with a strange miraculous sense of bliss. Next morning
my eyes fell on a picture hanging near the bed, which I had never seen
there before. I shuddered, for it was Marguerite beaming on me with her
black brilliant eyes. I asked the servant whose picture it was, and
where it came from. He said it was the Chevalier's niece, the Marquise
de T----, and had always been where it was now, only I had not noticed
it; it had been freshly dusted the day before. The Chevalier said the
same. So that, whilst--waking or dreaming--my sole desire was to see
Angelica, what was continually before me was Marguerite. It seemed to
me that I was alienated, estranged, from myself. Some exterior foreign
power seemed to have possession of me, ruling me, taking supreme
command of me. I felt that I could not get away from Marguerite. Never
shall I forget the torture of that condition.
"One morning, as I was lying in a window seat, refreshing my whole
being by drinking in the perfume and the freshness which the morning
breeze was wafting to me, I heard trumpets in the distance, and
recognized a cheery march-tune of Russian cavalry. My heart throbbed
with rapture and delight. It was as if friendly spirits were coming to
me, wafted on the wings of the wind, speaking to me in lovely voices of
comfort, as if a newly-won life was stretching out hands to me to lift
me from the coffin in which some hostile power had nailed me up. One or
two horsemen came up with lightning speed, right into the castle
enclosure. I looked down, and saw Bogislav. In the excess of my joy I
shouted out his name; the Chevalier came in, pale and annoyed,
stammering out something about an unexpected billeting, and all sorts
of trouble and annoyance. Without attending to him, I ran downstairs
and threw myself into Bogislav's embrace.
"To my astonishment, I now learned that peace had been proclaimed a
long time before, and that the greater part of the troops were on their
homeward march. All this the Chevalier had concealed from me, keeping
me on in the chateau as his prisoner. Neither Bogislav nor I knew
anything in the shape of a motive for this conduct. But each of us
dimly felt that there must be something in the nature of foul play
about it. The Chevalier was quite a different man from that moment,
sulky and peevish. Even to lack of good breeding, he wearied us with
continual exhibitions of self-will, and naggling about trifles. Nay,
when, in the purest gratitude, I spoke enthusiastically of his having
saved my life, he smiled malignantly; and, in fact, his whole conduct
was that of an incomprehensible eccentric.
"After a halt of eight-and-forty hours for rest, Bogislav marched off
again, and I went with him. We were delighted when we turned our backs
on the strange old-world place, which now looked to me like some
gloomy, uncanny prison-house. But now, Dagobert, do you go on, for it
is quite your turn to continue the account of the rest of the strange
adventures which we have met with."
"How," began Dagobert, "can we doubt, and hesitate to believe in, the
marvellous power of foreboding, and fore-knowing, events which lie so
deep in man's nature? I never believed that my friend was dead. That
Spirit or Intelligence (call it whatever you choose) which speaks to
us, comprehensibly, from out our own selves, in our dreams, told me
that Moritz was alive, and that, somehow and somewhere, he was being
held fast in bonds of some most mysterious nature. Angelica's relations
with the Count cut me to the heart; and when, some little time ago, I
came here and found her in a peculiar condition, which, I am obliged to
say, caused me an inward horror (because I seemed to see, as in a magic
mirror, some terrible mysterious secret), there ripened in me a resolve
that I would go on a pilgrimage, by land and water, until I should find
my friend Moritz. I say not a word of my delight when I found him, on
German ground, at A----, and in the company of General von S----en.
"All the furies of hell awoke in his breast when he heard of Angelica's
betrothal to the Count; but all his execrations and heart-breaking
lamentations at her unfaithfulness to him were silenced when I told
him of certain ideas which I had formed, and assured him that it
was in his power to set the whole matter straight in a moment. General
von Se----en shuddered when I mentioned the Count's name to him, and
when, at his desire, I described his face, figure, and appearance, he
cried, 'Yes, there can be no further doubt. He is the very man!'"
"You will be surprised," here interrupted the General, "to hear me say
that this Count S----i, many years ago, in Naples, carried away from
me, by means of diabolical arts, a lady whom I deeply and fondly loved.
At the very instant when I ran my sword through his body, both she and
I were seized upon by a hellish illusion which parted us for ever. I
have long known that the wounds which I gave him were not dangerous in
the slightest degree, that he became a suitor for the lady's hand, and,
alas! that on the very day when she was to have been married to him,
she fell down dead, stricken by what was said to be an attack of
apoplexy."
"Good Heavens!" cried Madame von G----. "No doubt a similar fate was
hanging over my darling child! But how is it that I feel this is so?"
"The voice of the boding Spirit tells you so, Madame," said Dagobert.
"And then," said Madame von G----, "that terrible apparition which
Moritz was telling us of that evening when the Count came in in such a
mysterious way?"
"As I was telling you then," said Moritz, "there fell a crashing blow.
An ice-cold deathly air blew upon me, and it seemed to me that a pale
indistinct form went hovering and rustling across the room, in
wavering, scarcely distinguishable outlines. I mastered my terror with
all the might of my reason. All I seemed to be conscious of was that
Bogislav was lying stiff, cold, and rigid, like a man dead. When he had
been brought back to consciousness, with great pains and trouble, by
the doctor who was summoned, he feebly reached out his hand to me, and
said, 'Soon, to-morrow at latest, all my sorrows will be over.' And it
really happened as he said, though it was the will of Providence that
it should come about in quite a different way to that which we
anticipated. In the thick of the fighting, next morning, a spent ball
struck him on the breast and knocked him out of his saddle. This kindly
ball shattered the portrait of his false love, which he wore next to
his heart, into a thousand splinters. His contusion soon healed, and
since that moment Bogislav has been quite free from everything of an
uncanny nature."
"It is as he says," said the General, "and the very memory of her who
is lost to me does no more than produce in me that gentle sadness which
is so soothing to the heart. But I hope our friend Dagobert will go on
to tell you what happened to us further."
"We made all haste away from A----," Dagobert resumed, "and this
morning, just as day was breaking, we reached the little town of P---,
about six miles from this place, meaning to rest there for an hour or
two, and then come on here. Imagine the feelings of Moritz and me when,
from one of the rooms in the inn, we saw Marguerite come bursting out
upon us, with insanity clearly written on her pallid face. She fell at
Moritz's feet and embraced his knees, weeping bitterly, calling herself
the blackest of criminals, worthy a thousand deaths. She implored him
to end her life on the spot. Moritz repulsed her with the deepest
abhorrence, and rushed away from the house."
"Yes," said Moritz, "when I saw Marguerite at my feet, all the torments
of that terrible condition in which I had been at the Chevalier's came
back upon me, goading me into a state of fury such as I had never known
before. I could scarcely help running my sword through her heart; but I
succeeded in mastering myself, and I made my escape after a mighty
effort."
"I lifted Marguerite up from the floor," Dagobert continued, "and
helped her to her room. I succeeded in calming her, and heard her tell
me, in broken sentences, exactly what I had expected and anticipated.
She gave me a letter from the Count, which had reached her the previous
midnight. I have it here."
He produced it, and read it as follows:--
"Fly, Marguerite! All is lost! The detested one is coming quickly. All
my science, knowledge, and skill are of no avail to me as against the
dark fate and destiny about to overtake me at the very culminating
point of my career.
"Marguerite, I have initiated you into mysteries which would have
annihilated any ordinary woman had she endeavoured to comprehend them.
But you, with your exceptional mental powers, and firm, strong will and
resolution, have been a worthy pupil to the deeply experienced master.
Your help has been most precious to me. It was through you that I
controlled Angelica's mind, and all her inner being. And, to reward
you, it was my desire to prepare for you the bliss of your life,
according to the manner in which your heart conceived it; and I dared
to enter within circles the most mysterious, the most perilous. I
undertook operations which often terrified even myself. In vain. Fly,
or your destruction is certain. Until the supreme moment comes I shall
battle bravely on against the hostile powers. But I know well that that
supreme moment brings to me instant death. But I will die all alone.
When the supreme moment comes I shall go to that mysterious tree, under
whose shadow I have so often spoken to you of the wondrous secrets
which were known to me, and at my command.
"Marguerite, keep aloof from those secrets for evermore. Nature,
terrible mother, angry when her precocious children prematurely pry
into her secrets and pluck at the veil which covers her mysteries,
throws to them some glittering toy which lures them on until its
destroying power is directed against them. I myself once caused the
death of a woman, who perished at the very moment when I thought I was
going to take her to my heart with the most fervid affection; and this
paralysed my powers. Yet, dolt that I was, I still thought I should
find bliss here on earth. Farewell, Marguerite, farewell. Go back to
your own country. Go to S----. The Chevalier de T---- will charge
himself with your welfare and happiness. Farewell."
As Dagobert read this letter, all the auditors felt an inward shudder,
and Madame von G---- said, "I shall be compelled to believe in things
which my whole heart and soul refuse to credit. However, I certainly
never could understand now it was that Angelica forgot Moritz so
quickly and devoted herself to the Count. At the same time I cannot but
remember that she was all the time in an extraordinary, unnatural
condition of excitement, and that was a circumstance which filled me
with the most torturing anxiety. I remember that her inclination for
the Count showed itself at first in a very strange way. She told me she
used to have the most vivid and delightful dreams of him nearly every
night."
"Exactly," said Dagobert. "Marguerite told me that, by the Count's
directions, she used to sit whole nights by Angelica's bedside,
breathing the Count's name into her ear very, very softly. And the
Count would very often come into the room about midnight, fix a
steadfast gaze on Angelica for several minutes together, and then go
away again. But now that I have read you the Count's letter, is there
any need of commentary? His aim was to operate psychically upon the
Inner Principle by various mysterious processes and arts, and in this
he succeeded, by virtue of special qualifications of his nature. There
were most intimate relations between him and the Chevalier de T----,
both of them being members of that secret society or 'school' which has
a certain number of representatives in France and Italy, and is
supposed to be descended from, or a continuation of, the celebrated
P---- school. It was at the Count's instigation that the Chevalier kept
Moritz so long shut up in his chateau, and practised all sorts of
love-spells on him. I myself could go deeper into this subject, and say
more about the mysterious means by which the Count could influence the
Psychic Principle of others, as Marguerite divulged some of them to me.
I could explain many matters by a science which is not altogether
unknown to me, though I prefer not to call it by its name, for fear of
being misunderstood. However, I had rather avoid all those subjects,
to-day at all events."
"Oh, pray avoid them for ever," cried Madame von G----. "No more
reference to the dark, unknown realm, the abode of fear and horror. I
thank the Eternal Power, which has rescued my beloved child, and freed
us from the uncanny guest who brought us such terrible trouble."
It was arranged that they should go back to town the following day,
except the Colonel and Dagobert, who stayed behind to see to the burial
of the Count's remains.
When Angelica had long been Moritz's happy wife, it chanced that one
stormy November evening the family, and Dagobert, were sitting round
the fire in the very room into which Count S---- had made his entry in
such a spectral fashion. Just as then, mysterious voices were piping,
awakened by the storm-wind in the chimney.
"Do you remember?" said Madame von G----.
"Come, come," cried the Colonel; "no ghost stories, I beg." But
Angelica and Moritz spoke of what their feelings had been on that
evening long ago; of their having been so devotedly in love with each
other, and unable to help attaching the most overweening importance to
every little incident which occurred: how the pure beam of that love of
theirs had been reflected by everything, and even the sweet bond of
alarm wove itself out of loving, longing hearts--and how the Uncanny
Guest, heralded by all the spectral voices of ill-omen, had brought
terror upon them. "Does it not seem to you, dearest Moritz," said
Angelica, "that the strange tones of the storm-wind, as we hear them
now, are speaking to us, only of our love, in the kindliest possible
tones?"
"Yes! yes!" said Dagobert, "and the singing of the kettle sounds
to-night to _me_ much more like a little cradle song than anything
eerie."
Angelica hid her blushing face on Moritz's breast. And _he_--for his
part--clasped his arm round his beautiful wife, and softly whispered,
"Is there, here below, a higher bliss than this?"
"I see very plainly," said Ottmar, when he had finished, and the
friends still sat in gloomy silence, "that my little story has not
pleased you particularly, so we had better not say much more about it,
but consign it to oblivion."
"The very best thing we could do," said Lothair.
"And yet," Cyprian said, "I must take up the cudgels for my friend.
Of course you will say that I am to some extent mixed up in the
matter--that Ottmar has taken a good many of the germs of the story
from me, and on this occasion has been cooking in my kitchen, so that
you won't be disposed to allow me to be a judge in the case. Yet,
unless you mean to condemn everything without the slightest remorse,
like so many Rhadamanthuses--you must admit, yourselves, that there is
much in Ottmar's story which must be allowed to pass as genuinely
Serapiontic; the beginning, for instance."
"Quite right," said Theodore; "the party round the tea-table may pass
as from the life, as well as many other points during the course of the
tale. But, to speak candidly, we have had a very large assortment of
spectral characters such as the stranger Count, and it will soon be a
difficult matter to go on giving them novelty and originality. He is
too much like Alban in 'The Magnetizer.' You know the tale I mean, and
indeed that story and Ottmar's have both the same _motif_. Wherefore I
wish I might beg our Ottmar and you, Cyprian, to leave monsters of that
sort out of the game in future. For Ottmar this will be possible, but
for you, Cyprian, I am not so sure that it will. So that we shall have
to allow _you_ to serve us up a 'Spook' of the kind now and then, I
suppose, only stipulating that it shall be truly Serapiontic, _i.e._
come out of the very inmost depths of your imagination. Moreover 'The
Magnetizer' _seems_ rhapsodical, but the 'Uncanny Guest' is rhapsodical
in very truth."
"I must take up the cudgels for my friend in this respect too," said
Cyprian, "and tell you that, in the very neighbourhood of this place
where we are at this moment, there actually happened an event, not very
long ago, by no means unlike the incidents of this story. Into a quiet
happy group of friends, just when supernatural matters were forming the
subject of conversation, there suddenly came a stranger, who struck
every one as being uncanny and terrifying, notwithstanding his apparent
everydayness, and seeming belonging to the common level. By his arrival
this stranger not only spoiled the enjoyment of the evening in
question, but subsequently destroyed the peace and happiness of the
family for a long period. Even at this day deadly shudders seize a
happy wife when she thinks of the crafty wickedness with which this
person tried to entangle her in his nets. I told this at the time to
Ottmar, and nothing made a greater impression on him than the moment
when the stranger made his spectral entry, and the sense of the
propinquity of the hostile Spiritual Principle seized upon every one
present with a sudden terror. This moment came vividly to Ottmar's
mind, and formed the groundwork of his tale."
"But," said Ottmar, "as a single incident is far from being a complete
story--which ought to spring perfect and complete from its author's
brain, like Minerva from the head of Jupiter--my tale is of course not
worth much as a whole, and it is little to my credit, I suppose, that I
took advantage of two or three incidents which really happened, weaving
them--not without some little success perhaps--into a network of the
imaginary."
"Yes," said Lothair, "you are right, my friend. A single striking
incident is far from being a tale, just as one well-imagined theatrical
situation is a long way from constituting a play. This reminds me of
the way in which a certain playwright (who no longer walks this world,
and whose terrible death certainly atoned for any shortcomings of his
during his life, and reconciled his worst enemies to him) used to
construct his pieces. In a company where I was present, he said,
without any concealment, that he selected some one's good dramatic
situation which occurred to him, and then, solely for the sake of that,
hung a canvas round it and painted away upon it 'just whatever came in
his head,' or 'as best he could,' to use his own expressions. This
gave me a complete explanation of, and threw a dazzling flood of light
upon, the whole character and inner being of that writer's pieces,
particularly those of his later period. None of them is without some
very happily devised central situation, but all round this the scenes,
which he made up out of commonplace material, are woven like a loosely
knitted web, although the hand of that weaver, skilled as it is in
_technique_, is never to be mistaken."
"Never, say you?" remarked Theodore. "I have been always waiting and
looking out for the points where that writer would abandon his
commonplaces, and rise into the region of romance and true poetry. The
most striking and melancholy instance of what I mean is the so-called
Romantic Drama, 'Deodata'; a strange nondescript production, on which a
clever composer ought not to have wasted capital music. There can be no
more striking proof of the utter want of infelt poetry, of any
conception of the higher dramatic life, than where the author of
'Deodata,' in his preface, finds fault with Opera because it is
unnatural that people should sing on the stage, and next goes on to
explain that he has been at pains to introduce the singing, which is
incidental to it, always in a natural manner."
"_De mortuis nil nisi bonum_," said Cyprian, "let the dead repose in
peace."
"And all the more," said Lothair, "that I see midnight is close at
hand, and he might avail himself of that circumstance to give us a box
or two on the ear (as he is said to have done to his critics in life)
with his invisible fist."
Just then the carriage which Lothair had sent for on account of
Theodore's still invalid condition, came rolling up, and the friends
went back in it to town.
SECTION SIXTH.
It so happened that some irresistible psychic force had impelled
Sylvester back to town, although, as a rule, nothing in the world would
induce him to leave the country at the time of year when the weather
was at its pleasantest. A little theatrical piece which he had written
was going to be produced, and it seems an impossibility for an author
to miss a first performance of one of his pieces, even though he may
have to contend with a world of trouble and anxiety in connection with
it. Moreover, Vincent, too, had emerged from the crowd, so that, for
the time at least, the Serapion Brotherhood was fairly reestablished;
they held their meeting in the same pleasant public-garden where they
had last assembled.
Sylvester was not like the same man; he was in better spirits and more
talkative than when he was last seen, and taking him all over, like one
who had experienced some piece of great good fortune.
"Was it not well," said Lothair, "that we put off our meeting until our
friend's piece had been produced? otherwise we should have found our
good brother preoccupied, uninterested in our conversation, oppressed
as with a heavy burden. His piece would have been haunting him like
some distressful spectre, but now that it has burst its chrysalis and
fluttered away like a beautiful butterfly into the empyrean, and has
not sued for universal favour in vain, everything is clear and bright
within him. He stands glorified in the radiance of deserved applause
which has fallen so richly to his share, and we won't, for a moment,
take it ill of him that he looks down upon us with the least bit of
pardonable pride, seeing that not one of us can boast of having done
what he has; namely, electrified some six or eight hundred people with
one spark; but let everybody have his due. Your piece is good,
Sylvester; but you must admit that the admirable rendering was what
gave it its wings. You must really have been greatly satisfied with the
actors, were you not?"
"I certainly was," said Sylvester, "although at the same time it is
very difficult to please the author of a play with the performance of
it. You see, he is himself each of the characters of the piece; and all
their most intimate peculiarities, with all their necessary conditions,
have taken their origin in his own brain; and it seems impossible to
him that any other person shall so appropriate, and make his own, those
intimate thoughts of his which are peculiar to and innate in the
character as to be able to bring them forth into actual life. The
author, however, insists in his own mind upon this being done; and the
more vividly he has conceived the character, the more is he
discontented with the very slightest shortcoming, or alteration in it,
which he can discover in the actor's rendering of it. Certain is it
that the author suffers an anxiety which destroys all his pleasure in
the representation, and it is only when he can manage to soar above
this anxiousness, and see his character, the character which he has
invented, portrayed before his eyes, just as he saw it rise before his
mental vision, that he is able to enjoy, to some extent, seeing his
piece represented."
"Still," said Ottmar, "any annoyance which a playwright may feel, when
he sees other characters, quite dissimilar from his own, represented
instead of them, is richly compensated for by the applause of the
public, to which no author can, or should, be indifferent."
"No doubt," said Sylvester; "and as it is to the actor who is playing
the part that the applause is, in the first instance, given, the
author, who from his distant seat is looking on with trembling and
anxiety, yea, often with anger and disgust, at last becomes convinced
that the character (not at all his character) which is speaking the
speeches of his one on the stage, is, at all events, not so very bad
after all as might have been. Also it is quite true, and no reasonable
author, who is not entirely shut up in himself, will deny it, that many
a clever actor, who has formed a vivid conception of a character,
develops features in that character which he himself did not think of,
at least not distinctly, and which he must nevertheless admit to be
good and appropriate. The author sees a character which was born in his
own most inmost elements, appearing before him in a shape new and
strange to him. Yet this shape is by no means foreign to the elements
of the genesis of the character, nay it does not seem now possible that
it could have assumed a different form; and he feels a glad
astonishment over this thing, which is really his own, although it
seems so different; just as if he had suddenly come upon a treasure in
his garret, whose existence he had not dreamt of."
"There," said Ottmar, "spoke my dear kind-hearted Sylvester, who does
not know the meaning of the word 'vanity,' that vanity which has
stifled many a great and true talent. There is one writer for the stage
who once said, without the slightest hesitation, that there are no
actors capable of understanding the soul which dwells within him, or of
representing the characters which he creates. How wholly otherwise was
it with our grand and glorious Schiller, who once got into that state
of delighted surprise of which Sylvester speaks, when he saw his
Wallenstein performed, and declared that it was then, for the first
time, that he had seen his hero visibly in flesh and blood before his
eyes. It was Fleck, the for ever unforgettable hero of our stage, who
played Wallenstein then."
"On the whole," said Lothair, "I am convinced, and the instance which
Ottmar has given confirms me, that the writer on whom, in the depths of
his soul, the true recognition and comprehension of art, and with them,
that worship which they give to the creating formative spirit of the
universe, have arisen in light, cannot lower himself to the degraded
idol-cult, which worships only its own self as being the Fetish that
created all things. It is very easy for a great talent to be mistaken
for real genius. But time dispels every illusion: talent succumbs to
the attacks of time, but they have no effect on true genius, which
lives on in invulnerable strength and beauty. But, to return to our
Sylvester, and his theatre-piece, I must declare to you that I cannot
understand how any one can come to the heroic decision to permit a
work, for which he is indebted to his imagination, and to fortunate
creative impulses, to be acted before him on the slippery, risky,
uncertain boards of the stage."
The friends laughed, thinking that Lothair was, after his wont, going
to utter some quaint, out-of-the-way opinion.
"Am I," asked he, "really a strange being who often thinks things which
other people are not very apt to think? Well, be that as it may; I say
again that when a fairly good writer, who has genuine talent, such as
our Sylvester, puts a piece upon the stage, it feels to me very much as
if he made up his mind to jump out of a third-floor window, and take
his chance of what might happen to him. I am going to make a
confession; when I told you I did not go to the theatre on the first
night of Sylvester's piece, I told you a lie. Of course I went; and sat
on a back seat, a second Sylvester, a second author of the piece, for
it is impossible that he can have felt the strain of anxiety, the
strange feeling compounded of pleasure and its opposite, the
restlessness amounting to real pain, in any greater degree than I did
myself. Every word of the players, every gesture of theirs, took my
breath away, and I kept saying to myself, 'Oh, gracious heavens, is it
possible that that will do, that it will go down with the audience? and
is the author responsible whether it does or not?'"
"You make the thing worse than it is," said Sylvester. "I feel a
disagreeable oppression of the breath, particularly at the beginning;
but if matters are going on pretty well, and the public expresses
itself favourably, this gradually goes off, and makes room for a very
pleasant sensation, in which I think selfish satisfaction with one's
own production occupies the principal place."
"Oh! you theatre-writers," cried out Vincent, "you are the most
conceited of all. The applause of the multitude is, to you, the very
honey of Hybla, and you sip and swallow it with the daintiest of faces
and the sweetest of smiles. But I am going to take up the role of
devil's advocate, and add that you are as little to be found fault
with, for your anxiousness and eagerness (which many folks think are
nothing but the pangs of your vanity), as anybody else who is playing a
great and risky game. You are staking yourselves; winning means
applause, but losing means not only deserved blame, but (if this
amounts to a distinct public expression of it) that besmirching of the
ludicrous which is the bitterest and (as the French think) the most
fearful and damnable condemnation which a man can' experience here
below. A virtuous Frenchman would, therefore, much rather be considered
a vile reprobate than be laughed at, and it is quite certain that a ban
of being ludicrous always falls on any playwright who has been
(theatrically speaking) 'damned'; and he never shakes it off in all his
lifetime. Even future success is a most questionable affair, and many a
man who has had this misfortune happen to him, has fled in his despair
to the doleful wilderness of those productions which possess the
outward appearance of theatrical pieces, but, as their authors solemnly
assure us, are not meant for representation."
"I," said Theodore, "can corroborate you both most thoroughly from my
own experience, that it is a most hazardous matter to put a work on to
the stage. What it really amounts to is, that you are committing a
property of yours to the mercy of the winds and the waves. When one
remembers how many thousand accidental contingencies the effect of a
work depends upon, how very often the deeply considered and carefully
contrived effect of some passage is shipwrecked by the blunder, the
unskilfulness, or the mistake of a singer or instrumentalist; how
often--"
Vincent here interrupted with a vigourous cry of "hear! hear!"
"I cry 'hear! hear!'" he explained, "as the noble lords in the English
Parliament do when one of them is just going to let the cat out of the
bag. Theodore's head is full of nothing but the opera which he put upon
the stage a few years ago. At the time, he said, 'When I had attended a
dozen rehearsals which were more or less useless and pretty much
burked, and when the last one came, and the conductor evidently had
very little real idea of my score, or about the piece as a whole, I
gave things up, and felt quite calm in my mind as to the very dubious
destiny which was hanging over my production like a most threatening
thunder-cloud.' I said, 'If it is failure, a failure let it be; I am
far away aloft above all an author's anxieties and uneasinesses.' With
other pretty speeches of a like nature. But when I saw my friend on the
day of the performance, and when it came to be time to go to the
theatre, he suddenly turned as white as a sheet (though he smiled and
laughed a great deal, nobody quite knew at what), and gave us the most
eager assurances that he had almost forgotten that that was the night
when his opera was to be given--tried, when putting on his greatcoat,
to stick his right arm into the left sleeve, so that I had to help him
on with it--and then ran off across the street like one possessed,
without a word. And, as the first chords of his overture sounded just
as he was getting into his box, he tumbled into the arms of the
terrified boxkeeper. Then--"
"There, there!" cried Theodore, "that's enough about my opera, and the
execution of it. I shall be very glad to tell you as much as you please
about them any time when we happen to be having a regular talk about
music; but not another word to-night."
"We have said enough, and more than enough," said Lothair, "on this
particular subject, and by way of winding it up, I may just say that
there is a little anecdote of Voltaire which pleases me greatly. Once,
when one of his tragedies--I think it was Zaire--was going to be given
for the first time, he was in such a terror of anxiety about its fate,
that he did not dare to be present himself; but all the way between his
house and the theatre he had people posted to send him messages every
two or three minutes, by a code of signals, bow the piece was going; so
that he was able to suffer all the torments of the Author comfortably,
_en robe de chambre_, in his own room."
"Now," cried Sylvester, "wouldn't that make a capital scene on the
stage? and what a splendid part it would be for a character actor.
Think of Voltaire on the boards. News comes that 'The public is
disturbed, uneasy.' 'Ha!' he cries, 'frivolous race! can any one
awaken your sympathy?' Next comes a message that 'the public is
applauding--shouting in delight.' 'Oh! great, grand, noble Frenchmen,'
he cries, 'you comprehend your Voltaire--you are worthy of him.' 'The
public is hissing, and there are one or two catcalls audible.' 'Ah!
traitors! this to me--to me!'"
"Enough, enough," said Ottmar. "Sylvester is so inspired by his success
that he is favouring us with a scene of a comedy instead of--like a
proper Serapion Brother--reading us a tale, the most interesting
subject of which he told me of, in writing, and which I know he has
finished and brought with him."
"Our having been talking of Voltaire," said Sylvester, "may lead us to
think of his 'Siècle de Louis XIV.,' and of that period itself, in
which I have laid the scenes of the story which I now venture, with all
modesty, to submit, hoping for your favourable opinion."
He read:--
MADEMOISELLE SCUDERI:
A Tale Of The Times Of Louis The Fourteenth.
Magdaleine Scuderi, so famous for her charming poetical and other
writings, lived in a small mansion in the Rue St. Honoré, by favour of
Louis the 14th and Madame Maintenon.
Late one night--about midnight--in the autumn of the year 1680, there
came a knocking at the door of this house, so loud and violent that it
shook the very ground. Baptiste, who filled the offices of cook,
butler, and doorkeeper in the lady's modest establishment, had gone, by
her leave, to the country to his sister's wedding, so that La
Martinière, the _femme de chambre_, was the only person still awake in
the house. She heard this knocking, which went on without ceasing
almost, and she remembered that, as Baptiste was away, she and her
mistress were alone and unprotected. She thought of the housebreakings,
robberies, and murders which were so frequent in Paris at that time,
and felt convinced that some of the numerous bands of malefactors,
knowing the defenceless state of the house that night, were raising
this alarum at the door, and would commit some outrage if it was
opened; so she remained in her room, trembling and terrified,
anathematizing Baptiste, and his sister's marriage into the bargain.
Meantime the thundering knocking went on at the door, and she thought
she heard a voice calling in the intervals, "Open, for the love of
Christ! Open!--open!" At last, her alarm increasing, she took her
candle and ran out on to the landing, where she distinctly heard the
voice crying, "Open the door, for the love of Christ!"
"After all," she said to herself, "one knows that a robber would not be
crying out in that way. Perhaps it is somebody who is being pursued and
is come to my lady for refuge. She is known to be always ready to do a
kind action--but we must be very careful!"
She opened a window, and called down into the street, asking who it was
who was making such a tremendous thundering at the door at that time of
the night, rousing everybody from their sleep. This she did in a voice
which she tried to make as like a man's as she could. By the glimmer of
the moon, which was beginning to break through dark clouds, she could
make out a tall figure, in a long grey cloak, with a broad hat drawn
down over the forehead. Then she cried, in a loud voice, so that this
person in the street should hear, "Baptiste! Claude! Pierre! Get up,
and see who this rascal is who is trying to get in at this time of
night." But a gentle, entreating voice spake from beneath, saying, "Ah,
La Martinière, I know it is you, you kind soul, though you are trying
to alter your voice; and I know well enough that Baptiste is away in
the country, and that there is nobody in the house but your mistress
and yourself. Let me in. I _must_ speak with your lady this instant."
"Do you imagine," asked La Martinière, "that my lady is going to speak
to you in the middle of the night? Can't you understand that she has
been in bed ever so long, and that it is as much as my place is worth
to awaken her out of her first sweet sleep, which is so precious to a
person at her time of life?"
"I know," answered the person beneath, "that she has just this moment
put away the manuscript of the novel 'Clelia,' at which she is working
so hard, and is writing some verses which she means to read to-morrow
at Madame de Maintenon's. I implore you, Madame La Martinière, be so
compassionate as to open the door. Upon your doing so depends the
escape of an unfortunate creature from destruction. Nay, honour,
freedom, a human life, depend on this moment in which I _must_ speak
with your lady. Remember, her anger will rest upon you for ever when
she comes to know that it was you who cruelly drove away from her door
the unfortunate wretch who came to beg for her help."
"But why should you come for her help at such an extraordinary time of
the night?" asked La Martinière. "Come back in the morning at a
reasonable hour." But the reply came up, "Does destiny, when it strikes
like the destroying lightning, consider hours and times? When there is
but one moment when rescue is possible, is help to be put off? Open me
the door. Have no fear of a wretched being who is without defence,
hunted, under the pressure of a terrible fate, and flies to your lady
for succour from the most imminent peril."
La Martinière heard the stranger moaning and groaning as he uttered
those words in the deepest sorrow, and the tone of his voice was that
of a youth, soft and gentle, and going profoundly to the heart. She was
deeply touched, and without much more hesitation she went and fetched
the key.
As soon as she opened the door, the form shrouded in the mantle burst
violently in, and passing La Martinière, cried in a wild voice, "Take
me to your lady!" La Martinière held up the light which she was
carrying, and the glimmer fell on the face of a very young man,
distorted and frightfully drawn, and as pale as death. She almost fell
down on the landing for terror when he opened his cloak and showed the
glittering hilt of a stiletto sticking in his doublet. He flashed his
gleaming eyes at her, and cried, more wildly than before, "Take me to
your lady, I tell you."
La Martinière saw that her mistress was in the utmost danger. All her
affection for her, who was to her as the kindest of mothers, flamed up
and created a courage which she herself would scarcely have thought
herself capable of. She quickly closed the door of her room, moved
rapidly in front of it, and said, in a brave, firm voice, "Your furious
behaviour, now that you have got into the house, is very different to
what might have been expected from the way you spoke down in the
street. I see now that I had pity on you a little too easily. My lady
you shall not see or speak with at this hour. If you have no bad
designs, and are not afraid to show yourself in daylight, come and tell
her your business to-morrow; but take yourself off out of this house
now."
He heaved a hollow sigh, glared at La Martinière with a terrible
expression, and grasped his dagger. She silently commended her soul to
God, but stood firm and looked him straight in the face, pressing
herself more firmly against the door through which he would have to
pass in order to reach her mistress.
"Let me get to your lady, I tell you!" he cried once more.
"Do what you will," said La Martinière, "I shall not move from this
spot. Finish the crime which you have begun to commit. A shameful death
on the Place de Grève will overtake you, as it has your accursed
comrades in wickedness."
"Ha! you are right, La Martinière," he cried. "I am armed, and I look
as if I were an accursed robber and murderer. But my comrades are not
executed--are not executed," and he drew his dagger, advancing with
poisonous looks towards the terrified woman.
"Jesus!" she cried, expecting her death-wound; but at that moment there
came up from the street below the clatter and the ring of arms, and the
hoof-tread of horses.
"La Marechaussée! La Marechaussée! Help! help!" she cried.
"Wretched woman, you will be my destruction," he cried. "All is over
now--all over! Here, take it; take it. Give this to your lady now, or
to-morrow if you like it better." As he said this in a whisper, he took
the candelabra from her, blew out the tapers, and placed a casket in
her hands. "As you prize your eternal salvation," he cried, "give this
to your lady." He dashed out of the door, and was gone.
La Martinière had sunk to the floor. She raised herself with
difficulty, and groped her way back in the darkness to her room,
where, wholly overcome and unable to utter a sound, she fell into an
arm-chair. Presently she heard the bolts rattle, which she had left
unfastened when she closed the house door. The house was therefore now
shut up, and soft unsteady steps were approaching her room. Like one
under a spell, unable to move, she was preparing for the very worst,
when, to her inexpressible joy, the door opened, and by the pale light
of the night-lamp she saw it was Baptiste. He was deadly pale, and much
upset. "For the love of all the saints," he exclaimed, "tell me what
has happened! Oh, what a state I am in! Something--I don't know what it
was--told me to come away from the wedding yesterday--forced me to come
away. So when I got to this street, I thought, Madame Martinière isn't
a heavy sleeper; she'll hear me if I knock quietly at the door, and let
me in. Then up came a strong patrol meeting me, horsemen and foot,
armed to the teeth. They stopped me, and wouldn't let me go. Luckily
Desgrais was there, the lieutenant of the Marechaussée. He knows me,
and as they were holding their lanterns under my nose, he said, 'Ho,
Baptiste! How come you here in the streets at this time of the night?
You ought to be at home, taking care of the house. This is not a very
safe spot just at this moment. We're expecting to make a fine haul, an
important arrest, to-night.' You can't think, Madame La Martinière, how
I felt when he said that. And when I got to the door, lo! and behold! a
man in a cloak comes bursting out with a drawn dagger in his hand, runs
round me, and makes off. The door was open, the keys in the lock. What,
in the name of all that's holy, is the meaning of it all?"
La Martinière, relieved from her alarm, told him all that had happened,
and both she and he went back to the hall, where they found the
candelabra on the floor, where the stranger had thrown it on taking his
flight. "There can't be the slightest doubt that our mistress was
within an ace of being robbed, and murdered too, very likely," Baptiste
said. "According to what you say, the scoundrel knew well enough that
there was nobody in the house but her and you, and even that she was
still sitting up at her writing. Of course he was one of those infernal
blackguards who pry into folks' houses and spy out everything that can
be of use to them in their devilish designs. And the little casket,
Madame Martinière, that, I think, we'll throw into the Seine where it's
deepest. Who shall be our warrant that some monster or other isn't
lying in wait for our mistress's life? Very likely, if she opens the
casket, she may tumble down dead, as the old Marquis de Tournay did
when he opened a letter which came to him, he didn't know where from."
After a long consultation, they came to the conclusion that they would,
next morning, tell their lady everything that had happened, and even
hand her the mysterious casket, which might, perhaps, be opened if
proper precautions were taken. On carefully weighing all the
circumstances connected with the apparition of the stranger, they
thought that there must be some special secret or mystery involved in
the affair, which they were not in a position to unravel, but must
leave to be elucidated by their superiors.
There were good grounds for Baptiste's fears. Paris, at the time in
question, was the scene of atrocious deeds of violence, and that just
at a period when the most diabolical inventions of hell provided the
most facile means for their execution.
Glaser, a German apothecary, the most learned chemist of his day,
occupied himself--as people who cultivate his science often do--with
alchemical researches and experiments. He had set himself the task of
discovering the philosopher's stone. An Italian of the name of Exili
associated himself with him; but to him the art of goldmaking formed a
mere pretext. What he aimed at mastering was the blending, preparation,
and sublimation of the various poisonous substances which Glaser hoped
would give him the results he was in search of, and at length Exili
discovered how to prepare that delicate poison which has no odour nor
taste, and which, killing either slowly or in a moment, leaves not the
slightest trace in the human organism, and baffles the utmost skill of
the physician, who, not suspecting poison as the means of death,
ascribes it to natural causes. But cautiously as Exili went about this,
he fell under suspicion of dealing with poisons, and was thrown into
the Bastille. In the same cell with him there was presently quartered
an officer of the name of Godwin de Sainte-Croix, who had long lived
in relations with the Marquise de Brinvilliers which brought shame
upon all her family; and at length, as her husband cared nothing
about her conduct, her father (Dreux d'Aubray, Civil Lieutenant of
Paris) had to part the guilty pair by means of a _lettre de cachet_
against Sainte-Croix. The latter, being a man of passionate nature,
characterless, affecting sanctity, but addicted from his youth to
every vice, jealous, envious even to fury, nothing could be more
welcome to him than Exili's devilish secret, which gave him the power
of destroying all his enemies. He became Exili's assiduous pupil, and
soon equalled his instructor, so that when he was released from prison
he was in a position to carry on operations by himself on his own
account.
La Brinvilliers was a depraved woman, and Sainte-Croix made her a
monster. She managed, by degrees, to poison, first, her own father
(with whom she was living, on the hypocritical pretence of taking care
of him in his declining years), next her two brothers, and then her
sister; the father out of revenge, and the others for their fortunes.
The histories of more than one poisoner bear terrible evidence that
this description of crime assumes the form of an irresistible passion.
Just as a chemist makes experiments for the pleasure and the interest
of watching them, poisoners have often, without the smallest ulterior
object, killed persons whose living or dying was to them a matter of
complete indifference. The sudden deaths of a number of paupers,
patients at the Hôtel Dieu, a little time after the events just alluded
to, led to suspicion that the bread which La Brinvilliers was in the
habit of giving them every week (by way of an example of piety and
benevolence) was poisoned. And it is certain that she poisoned pigeon
pasties which were served up to guests whom she had invited. The
Chevalier du Guet, and many more, were the victims of those diabolical
entertainments. Sainte-Croix, his accomplice La Chaussée, and La
Brinvilliers, managed to hide their crimes for a long while under a
veil of impenetrable secrecy. But, however the wicked may brazen
matters out, there comes a time when the Eternal Power of Heaven
punishes the criminal, even here on earth. The poisons which
Sainte-Croix prepared were so marvellously delicate that if the powder
(which the Parisians appositely named "_poudre de succession_") was
uncovered while being made, a single inhalation of it was sufficient to
cause immediate death. Therefore Sainte-Croix always wore a glass mask
when at work. This mask fell off one day just as he was shaking a
finished powder into a phial, and, having inhaled some of the powder,
he fell dead in an instant. As he had no heirs, the law courts at once
placed his property under seal, when the whole diabolical arsenal of
poison-murder which had been at the villain's disposal was discovered,
and also the letters of Madame de Brinvilliers, which left no doubt as
to her crimes. She fled to a convent at Liège. Desgrais, an officer of
the Marechaussée, was sent after her. Disguised as a priest, he got
admitted into the convent, and succeeded in involving the terrible
woman in a love-affair, and in getting her to grant him a clandestine
meeting in a sequestered garden outside the town. When she arrived
there she found herself surrounded by Desgrais' myrmidons; and her
ecclesiastical gallant speedily transformed himself into the officer of
the Marechaussée, and compelled her to get into the carriage which was
waiting outside the garden, and drove straight away to Paris,
surrounded by an ample guard. La Chaussée had been beheaded previously
to this, and La Brinvilliers suffered the same death. Her body was
burnt, and its ashes scattered to the winds.
The Parisians breathed freely again when the world was freed from the
presence of this monster, who had so long wielded, with impunity,
unpunished, the weapon of secret murder against friend and foe. But it
soon became bruited abroad that the terrible art of the accursed La
Croix had been, somehow, handed down to a successor, who was carrying
it on triumphantly. Murder came gliding like an invisible, capricious
spectre into the narrowest and most intimate circles of relationship,
love, and friendship, pouncing securely and swiftly upon its unhappy
victims. Men who, to-day, were seen in robust health, were tottering
about on the morrow feeble and sick; and no skill of physicians could
restore them. Wealth, a good appointment or office, a nice-looking
wife, perhaps a little too young for her husband, were ample reasons
for a man's being dogged to death. The most frightful mistrust snapped
the most sacred ties. The husband trembled before his wife; the father
dreaded the son; the sister the brother. When your friend asked you to
dinner, you carefully avoided tasting the dishes and wines which he set
before you; and where joy and merriment used to reign, there were now
nothing but wild looks watching to detect the secret murderer. Fathers
of families were to be seen with anxious looks, buying supplies of food
in out-of-the-way places where they were not known, and cooking them
themselves in dirty cook-shops, for dread of treason in their own
homes. And yet often the most careful and ingenious precautions were
unavailing.
For the repression of this ever-increasing disorder the King
constituted a fresh tribunal, to which he entrusted the special
investigation and punishment of those secret crimes. This was the
Chambre Ardente, which held its sittings near the Bastille. La Regnie
was its president. For a considerable time La Regnie's efforts,
assiduous as they were, were unsuccessful, and it was the lot of the
much overworked Desgrais to discover the most secret lurking-hole of
the crime. In the Faubourg Saint-Germain there lived an old woman,
named La Voisin, who followed the calling of a teller of fortunes and a
summoner of spirits, and, assisted by her accomplices Le Sage and Le
Vigoureux, managed to alarm and astonish people who were by no means to
be considered weak or superstitious. But she did more than this. She
was a pupil of Exili's, like La Croix, and, like him, prepared the
delicate, traceless poison, which helped wicked sons to speedy
inheritance and unprincipled wives to other, younger husbands. Desgrais
fathomed her secrets; she made full confession; the Chambre Ardente
sentenced her to be burned, and the sentence was carried out on the
Place de Grève. Amongst her effects was found a list of those who had
availed themselves of her services; whence it followed, not only that
execution succeeded execution, but that strong suspicion fell on
persons of high consideration. Thus it was believed that Cardinal Bonzy
had obtained from La Voisin the means of disembarrassing himself of all
the persons to whom, in his capacity of Archbishop of Narbonne, he was
bound to pay pensions. Similarly, the Duchess de Bouillon and the
Countess de Soissons (their names having been found in La Voisin's
list) were accused of having had relations with her; and even Francis
Henri de Montmorency, Boudebelle, Duke of Luxemburg, Peer and Marshal
of the realm, did not escape arraignment before the Chambre Ardente. He
surrendered himself to imprisonment in the Bastille, where the hatred
of Louvois and La Regnie immured him in a cell only six feet long.
Months elapsed before it was proved that his offences did not deserve
so severe a punishment. He had once gone to La Voisin to have his
horoscope drawn.
What is certain is that an excess of inconsiderate zeal led President
La Regnie into violently illegal and barbarous measures. His Court
assumed the character of the Inquisition. The very slightest suspicion
rendered any one liable to severe imprisonment, and the establishment
of the innocence of a person tried for his life was often only a matter
of the merest chance. Besides, Regnie was repulsive to behold, and of
malicious disposition, so that he excited the hatred of those whose
avenger or protector he was called upon to be. When he asked the
Duchess de Bouillon if she had ever seen the devil, she answered, "I
think I see him at this moment."
Whilst now, on the Place de Grève, the blood of the guilty and of the
merely suspected was flowing in streams, and secret deaths by poison
were, at last, becoming more and more rare, a trouble of another
description showed itself, spreading abroad fresh consternation. It
seemed that a gang of robbers had made up their minds to possess
themselves of all the jewels in the city. Whenever a valuable set of
ornaments was bought, it disappeared in an inexplicable manner, however
carefully preserved and protected. And everybody who dared to wear
precious stones in the evening was certain to be robbed, either in the
public streets or in the dark passages of houses. Very often they were
not only robbed, but murdered. Such of them as escaped with their lives
said they had been felled by the blow of a clenched fist on the head,
which came on them like a thunderbolt. And when they recovered their
senses they found that they had been robbed, and were in a totally
different place from that where they had been knocked down. Those
who were murdered--and they were found nearly every morning lying
in the streets or in houses--had all the selfsame mortal wound--a
dagger-thrust, right through the heart, which the surgeons said must
have been delivered with such swiftness and certainty that the victim
must have fallen dead without the power of uttering a sound. Now who,
in all the luxurious Court of Louis Quatorze, was there who was not
implicated in some secret love-affair, and, consequently, often gliding
about the streets late at night with valuable presents in his pockets?
Just as if this robber-gang were in intercourse with spirits, they
always knew perfectly well when anything of this kind was going on.
Often the fortunate lover wouldn't reach the house where his lady was
expecting him; often he would fall at her threshold, at her very door,
where, to her horror, she would discover his bleeding body lying.
It was in vain that Argenson, the Minister of Police, arrested every
individual, in all Paris, who seemed to be touched by the very faintest
suspicion; in vain La Regnie raged, striving to compel confession; in
vain guards and patrols were reinforced. Not a trace of the
perpetrators of those outrages was to be discovered. The only thing
which was of a certain degree of use was to go about armed to the
teeth, and have a light carried before you; and yet there were cases in
which the servant who carried the light had his attention occupied by
having stones thrown at him, whilst at that very instant his master was
being robbed and murdered.
It was a remarkable feature of this business that, notwithstanding all
search and investigation in every quarter where there seemed to be any
chance of dealing in jewels going on, not a trace of even the smallest
of the plundered precious stones ever came to light. Desgrais foamed in
fury that even his acumen and skill were powerless to prevent the
escape of those scoundrels. Whatever part of the town he happened to be
in for the time was let alone, whilst in some other quarter, robbery
and murder were lying in wait for their rich prey.
Desgrais hit upon the clever idea of setting several facsimiles of
himself on foot--various Desgrais, exactly alike in gait, speech,
figure, face, &c.; so that his own men could not tell the one of them
from the other, or say which was the real Desgrais. Meanwhile he, at
the risk of his life, watched alone in the most secret hiding-places,
and followed, at a distance, this or the other person who seemed, by
the looks of him, to be likely to have jewels about him. But those whom
he was watching were unharmed, so that this artifice of his was as well
known, to the culprits as everything else seemed to be. Desgrais was in
utter despair.
One morning he came to President La Regnie, pale, distorted, almost out
of his mind.
"What is it--what news? Have you come upon the clue?" the President
cried to him as he came in.
"Ah, Monsieur!" cried Desgrais, stammering in fury, "last night, near
the Louvre, the Marquis de la Fare was set upon under my very nose!"
"Heaven and earth!" cried La Regnie, overjoyed, "we have got them!"
"Wait a moment, listen," said Desgrais, with a bitter smile. "I was
standing near the Louvre, watching and waiting, with hell itself in my
heart, for those devils who have been baffling me for such a length of
time. There came a figure close by me--not seeing me--with careful
uncertain steps, always looking behind it. By the moonlight I
recognised the Marquis de la Fare. I expected that he would be passing.
I knew where he was gliding to. Scarcely had he got ten or twelve paces
beyond me, when, out of the ground apparently, springs a figure, dashes
the Marquis to the ground, falls down upon him. Losing my self-command
at this occurrence, which seemed to be likely to deliver the murderer
into my hands, I cried out aloud, and meant to spring from my
hiding-place with a great jump and seize hold of him. But I tripped up
in my cloak and fell down. I saw the fellow flee away as if on the
wings of the wind; I picked myself up, and made off after him as fast
as I could. As I ran, I sounded my horn. Out of the distance the
whistles of my men answered me. Things grew lively--clatter of arms,
tramp of horses on all sides. 'Here!--come to me!--Desgrais!' I cried,
till the streets re-echoed. All the time I saw the man before me in the
bright moonlight, turning off right--left--to get away from me. We came
to the Rue Nicaise. There his strength seemed to begin to fail. I
gathered mine up. He was not more than fifteen paces ahead of me."
"You got hold of him!--your men came up!" cried La Regnie, with
flashing eyes, grasping Desgrais by the arm as if he were the fleeing
murderer himself.
"Fifteen paces ahead of me," said Desgrais, in a hollow voice, and
drawing his breath hard, "this fellow, before my eyes, dodged to one
side, and vanished through the wall."
"Vanished!--through the wall! Are you out of your senses?" La Regnie
cried, stepping three steps backwards, and striking his hands together.
"Call me as great a madman as you please, Monsieur," said Desgrais,
rubbing his forehead like one tortured by evil thoughts. "Call me a
madman, or a silly spirit-seer; but what I have told you is the literal
truth. I stood staring at the wall, while several of my men came up out
of breath, and with them the Marquis de la Fare (who had picked himself
up), with his drawn sword in his hand. We lighted torches, we examined
the wall all over. There was not the trace of a door, a window, any
opening. It is a strong stone wall of a courtyard, belonging to a
house, in which people are living--against whom there is not the
slightest suspicion. I have looked into the whole thing again this
morning in broad daylight. It must be the very devil himself who is at
work befooling us in the matter."
This story got bruited abroad through Paris, where all heads were full
of the witch-business, spirit conjuration, devil-covenants of La
Voisin, Vigoureux, and the wicked priest Le Sage; and as it does lie in
our eternal nature that the bent towards the supernatural and the
marvellous overpasses all reason, people soon believed nothing less
than that which Desgrais had only said in his impatience--namely, that
the very devil himself must protect those rascals, and that they had
sold their souls to him. We can readily understand that Desgrais's
story soon received many absurd embellishments. It was printed, and
hawked about the town, with a woodcut at the top representing a
horrible devil-form sinking into the ground before the terrified
Desgrais. Quite enough to frighten the people, and so terrify
Desgrais's men that they lost all courage, and went about the streets
behung with amulets, and sprinkled with holy water.
Argenson, seeing that the Chambre Ardente was unsuccessful, applied to
the King to constitute--with special reference to this novel
description of crime--a tribunal armed with greater powers for tracking
and punishing offenders. The King, thinking he had already given powers
too ample to the Chambre Ardente, and shocked at the horrors of the
numberless executions, carried out by the bloodthirsty La Regnie,
refused.
Then another method of influencing His Majesty was devised.
In the apartments of Madame de Maintenon,--where the King was in the
habit of spending much of his time in the afternoons,--and also, very
often, would be at work with his Ministers till late at night--a
poetical petition was laid before him, on the part of the "Endangered
Lovers," who complained that when "galanterie" rendered it incumbent on
them to be the bearers of some valuable present to the ladies of their
hearts, they had always to do it at the risk of their lives. They said,
that, of course, it was honour and delight to pour out their blood for
the lady of their heart, in knightly encounter, but that the
treacherous attack of the assassin, against which it was impossible to
guard, was quite a different matter. They expressed their hope that
Louis, the bright pole-star of love and gallantry, might deign--arising
and shining in fullest splendour--to dispel the darkness of night, and
thus reveal the black mysteries hidden thereby; that the God-like hero,
who had hurled his foes to the dust, would now once more wave his
flashing faulchion, and, as did Hercules in the case of the Lærnean
Hydra, and Theseus in that of the Minotaur, vanquish the threatening
monster who was eating up all love-delight, and darkening all joy into
deep sorrow and inconsolable mourning.
Serious as the subject was, this poem was not deficient in most
wittily-turned phrases, particularly where it described the state of
watchful anxiety in which lovers had to glide to their lady-loves, and
how this mental strain necessarily destroyed all love-happiness, and
nipped all adventures of "galanterie" in the very bud. And, as it
wound up with a high-flown panegyric of Louis XIV., the King could not
but read it with visible satisfaction. When he perused it, he turned
to Madame de Maintenon--without taking his eyes from it--read it
again--aloud this time--and then asked, with a pleased smile, what she
thought of the petition of the 'Endangered Lovers.' Madame de
Maintenon, faithful to her serious turn, and ever wearing the garb of a
certain piousness, answered that hidden and forbidden ways did not
deserve much in the form of protection, but that the criminals probably
did require special laws for their punishment. The King, not satisfied
with this answer, folded the paper up, and was going back to the
Secretary of State, who was at work in the ante-room, when, happening
to glance sideways, his eyes rested on Mademoiselle Scuderi, who was
present, seated in a little arm-chair. He went straight to her; and the
pleased smile which had at first been playing about his mouth and
cheeks--but had disappeared--resumed the ascendency again. Standing
close before her, with his face unwrinkling itself, he said--
"The Marquise does not know, and has no desire to learn, anything about
the 'galanteries' of our enamoured gentlemen, and evades the subject in
ways which are nothing less than forbidden. But, Mademoiselle, what do
_you_ think of this poetical petition?"
Mademoiselle Scuderi rose from her chair; a transient blush, like the
purple of the evening sky, passed across her pale cheeks, and, gently
bending forward, she answered, with downcast eyes--
"Un amant qui craint les voleurs.
N'est point digne d'amour."
The King, surprised, and struck by admiration at the chivalrous spirit
of those few words--which completely took the wind out of the sails of
the poem, with all its ell-long tirades--cried, with flashing eyes--
"By Saint Denis, you are right, Mademoiselle! No blind laws, touching
the innocent and the guilty alike, shall shelter cowardice. Argenson
and La Regnie must do their best."
Next morning La Martinière enlarged upon the terrors of the time,
painting them in glowing colours to her lady, when she told her all
that had happened the previous night, and handed her the mysterious
casket, with much fear and trembling. Both she and Baptiste (who stood
in the corner as white as a sheet, kneading his cap in his hand from
agitation and anxiety) implored her, in the name of all the saints, to
take the greatest precautions in opening it. She, weighing and
examining the unopened mystery in her hand, said with a smile, "You are
a couple of bogies! The wicked scoundrels outside, who, as you say
yourselves, spy out all that goes on in every house, know, no doubt,
quite as well as you and I do, that I am not rich, and that there are
no treasures in this house worth committing a murder for. Is my life in
danger, do you think? Who could have any interest in the death of an
old woman of seventy-three, who never persecuted any evil-doers except
those in her own novels; who writes mediocre poetry, incapable of
exciting any one's envy; who has nothing to leave behind her but the
belongings of an old maid, who sometimes goes to Court, and two or
three dozen handsomely-bound books with gilt edges. And, alarming as
your account is, La Martinière, of the apparition of this man, I cannot
believe that he meant me any harm, so----"
La Martinière sprang three paces backwards, and Baptiste fell on one
knee with a hollow, "Ah!" as Mademoiselle Scuderi pressed a projecting
steel knob, and the lid of the casket flew open with a certain amount
of noise.
Great was her surprise to see that it contained a pair of bracelets,
and a necklace richly set in jewels. She took them out and as she spoke
in admiration of the marvellous workmanship of the necklace, La
Martinière cast glances of wonder at the bracelets, and cried, again
and again, that Madame Montespan herself did not possess such jewelry.
"But why is it brought to me?" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi. "What can
this mean?" She saw, however, a little folded note at the bottom of the
casket, and in this she rightly thought she would find the key to the
mystery. When she had read what was written in the note, it fell from
her trembling hands; she raised an appealing look to heaven, and then
sank down half fainting in her chair. Baptiste and La Martinière
hurried to her, in alarm. "Oh!" she cried, in a voice stifled by tears,
"the mortification! The deep humiliation! Has it been reserved for me
to undergo this in my old age? Have I ever been frivolous, like some of
the foolish young creatures? Are words, spoken half in jest, to be
found capable of such a terrible interpretation? Am I, who have been
faithful to all that is pure and good from my childhood, to be made
virtually an accomplice in the crimes of this terrible confederation?"
She held her handkerchief to her eyes, so that Baptiste and La
Martinière, altogether at sea in their anxious conjectures, felt
powerless to set about helping her, who was so dear to them, as the
best and kindest of mistresses, in her bitter affliction.
La Martinière picked up the paper from the floor. On it was written--
"Un amant qui craint les voleurs
N'est point digne d'amour."
"Your brilliant intellect, most honoured lady, has delivered us, who
exercise, on weakness and cowardice, the rights of the stronger, and
possess ourselves of treasures which would otherwise be unworthily
wasted, from much bitter persecution. As a proof of our gratitude, be
pleased to kindly accept this set of ornaments. It is the most valuable
that we have been enabled to lay hands on for many a day. Although far
more beautiful and precious jewels ought to adorn you, yet we pray you
not to deprive us of your future protection and remembrance.--THE
INVISIBLES."
"Is it possible," cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, when she had partially
recovered herself, "that shameless wickedness and abandoned insult can
be carried further by human beings?" The sun was shining brightly
through the window curtains of crimson silk, and consequently the
brilliants, which were lying on the table beside the open casket, were
flashing a rosy radiance. Looking at them, Mademoiselle Scuderi covered
her face in horror, and ordered La Martinière instantly to take those
terrible jewels away, steeped, as they seemed to be, in the blood of
the murdered. La Martinière, having at once put the necklace and
bracelets back into their case, thought the best thing to do would be
to give them to the Minister of Police, and tell him all that had
happened.
Mademoiselle Scuderi rose, and walked up and down slowly and in
silence, as if considering what it was best to do. Then she told
Baptiste to bring a sedan chair, and La Martinière to dress her, as she
was going straight to the Marquise de Maintenon.
She repaired thither at the hour when she knew Madame de Maintenon
would be alone, taking the casket and jewels with her.
Madame de Maintenon might well wonder to see this dear old lady (who
was always kindness, sweetness and amiability personified), pale,
distressed, upset, coming in with uncertain steps. "In heaven's name,
what has happened to you?" she cried to her visitor, who was scarcely
able to stand upright, striving to reach the chair which the Marquise
drew forward for her. At last, when she could find words, she told her
what a deep, irremediable insult and outrage the thoughtless speech
which she had made in reply to the King had brought upon her.
Madame de Maintenon, when she had heard the whole affair properly
related, thought Mademoiselle Scuderi was taking it far too much to
heart, strange as the occurrence was--that the insult of a pack of
wretched rabble could not hurt an upright, noble heart: and finally
begged that she might see the ornaments.
Mademoiselle Scuderi handed her the open casket, and when she saw the
splendid and valuable stones, and the workmanship of them, she could
not repress a loud expression of admiration. She took the bracelets and
necklace to the window, letting the sunlight play on the jewels, and
holding the beautiful goldsmith's work close to her eyes, so as to see
with what wonderful skill each little link of the chains was formed.
She turned suddenly to Mademoiselle Scuderi, and cried, "Do you know,
there is only one man who can have done this work--and that is René
Cardillac."
René Cardillac was then the cleverest worker in gold in all Paris, one
of the most artistic, and at the same time extraordinary men of his
day. Short, rather than tall, but broad-shouldered, and of strong and
muscular build, Cardillac, now over fifty, had still the strength and
activity of a youth. To this vigour, which was to be called unusual,
testified also his thick, curling, reddish hair, and his massive,
shining face. Had he not been known to be the most upright and
honourable of men, unselfish, open, without reserve, always ready to
help, his altogether peculiar glance out of his grimly sparkling eyes
might have brought him under suspicion of being secretly ill-tempered
and wicked. In his art he was the most skilful worker, not only in
Paris, but probably in the world at that time. Intimately acquainted
with every kind of precious stones, versed in all their special
peculiarities, he could so handle and treat them that ornaments which
at a first glance promised to be poor and insignificant, came from his
workshop brilliant and splendid. He accepted every commission with
burning eagerness, and charged prices so moderate as to seem out of all
proportion to the work. And the work left him no rest. Day and night he
was to be heard hammering in his shop; and often, when a job was nearly
finished, he would suddenly be dissatisfied with the form--would have
doubts whether some of the settings were tender enough; some little
link would not be quite to his mind--in fine, the whole affair would be
thrown into the melting-pot, and begun all over again. Thus every one
of his works was a real, unsurpassable _chef-d'[oe]uvre_, which set the
person who had ordered it into amazement. But then, it was hardly
possible to get the finished work out of his hands. He would put the
customer off from one week to another, by a thousand excuses, ay, from
month to month. He might be offered twice the price he had agreed upon,
but it was useless; he would take no more; and when, ultimately, he was
obliged to yield to the customer's remonstrances, and deliver the work,
he could not conceal the vexation--nay, the rage--which seethed within
him. If he had to deliver some specially valuable and unusually rich
piece of workmanship, worth perhaps several thousand francs, he would
get into such a condition that he ran up and down like one demented,
cursing himself, his work, and every thing and person about him; but
should, then, some one come running up behind him, crying, "René
Cardillac, would you be so kind as to make me a beautiful necklace for
the lady I am going to marry?" or "a pair of bracelets for my girl?" or
the like, he would stop in a moment, flash his small eyes upon the
speaker, and say, "Let me see what you have got." The latter would take
out a little case, and say, "Here are jewels; they are not worth much;
only every-day affairs; but in your hands----." Cardillac would
interrupt him, snatch the casket from his hands, take out the stones
(really not very valuable), hold them up to the light, and cry, "Ho!
ho! common stones you say! Nothing of the kind!--very fine, splendid
stones! Just see what I shall make of them; and if a handful of Louis
are no object to you, I will put two or three others along with them
which will shine in your eyes like the sun himself!" The customer would
say: "I leave the matter entirely in your hands, Master René; make what
charge you please." Whether the customer were a rich burgher or a
gallant of quality, Cardillac would then throw himself violently on his
neck, embrace him and kiss him, and say he was perfectly happy again,
and that the work would be ready in eight days' time. Then he would run
home as fast as he could to his work-shop, where he would set to work
hammering away; and in eight days' time there would be a masterpiece
ready. But as soon as the customer would arrive, glad to pay the
moderate price demanded, and take away his prize, Cardillac would
become morose, ill-tempered, rude, and insolent. "But consider, Master
Cardillac," the customer would say, "to-morrow is my wedding-day."
"What do I care?" Cardillac would answer; "what is your wedding-day to
me? Come back in a fortnight." "But it is finished!--here is the money;
I must have it." "And I tell you that there are many alterations which
I must make before I let it leave my hands, and I am not going to let
you have it to-day." "And I tell you, that if you don't give me my
jewels--which I am ready to pay you for--quietly, you will see me come
back with a file of D'Argenson's men." "Now, may the devil seize you
with a hundred red-hot pincers, and hang three hundredweight on to the
necklace, that it may throttle your bride!" With which he would cram
the work into the customer's breast-pocket, seize him by the arm, push
him out of the door, so that he would go stumbling all the way
downstairs, and laugh like a fiend, out of window, when he saw the
poor wretch go limping out, holding his handkerchief to his bleeding
nose. It was not easy of explanation neither that Cardillac, when he
had undertaken a commission with alacrity and enthusiasm, would
sometimes suddenly implore the customer, with every sign of the
deepest emotion--with the most moving adjurations, even with sobs and
tears--not to ask him to go on with it. Many persons, amongst those
most highly considered by the King and nation, had in vain offered
large sums for the smallest specimen of Cardillac's work. He threw
himself at the King's feet, and supplicated that, of his mercy, he
would not command him to work for him; and he declined all orders of
Madame de Maintenon's: once, when she wished him to make a little ring,
with emblems of the arts on it, which she wanted to give to Racine, he
refused with expressions of abhorrence and terror.
"I would wager," said Madame de Maintenon, "therefore, that even if I
were to send for Cardillac, to find out, at least, for whom he had made
those ornaments, he would somehow evade coming, for fear that I should
give him an order; nothing will induce him to work for me. Yet he does
seem to have been rather less obstinate of late, for I hear he is
working more than ever, and allows his customers to take away their
jewelry at once, though he does so with deep annoyance, and turns away
his face when he hands them over."
Mademoiselle Scuderi, who was exceedingly anxious that the jewels which
came into her possession in such an extraordinary manner should be
restored to their owner as speedily as possible, thought that this
wondrous René Cardillac should be informed at once that no work was
required of him, but simply his opinion as to certain stones. The
Marquise agreed to this; he was sent for, and he came into the room in
a very brief space, almost as if he had been on the way when sent for.
When he saw Mademoiselle Scuderi, he appeared perplexed, like one
confronted with the unexpected, who, for the time, loses sight of the
calls of courtesy; he first of all made a profound reverence to her,
and then turned, in the second place, to the Marquise. Madame de
Maintenon impetuously asked him if the jewelled ornaments--to which
she pointed as they lay sparkling on the dark-green cover of the
table--were his workmanship. Cardillac scarcely glanced at them, and,
fixedly staring in her face, he hastily packed the necklace and
bracelets into their case, and shoved them away with some violence.
Then he said, with an evil smile gleaming on his red face, "The truth
is, Madame la Marquise, that one must know René Cardillac's handiwork
very little to suppose, even for a moment, that any other goldsmith in
the world made those. Of course, I made them." "Then," continued the
Marquise, "say whom you made them for." "For myself alone," he
answered. "You may think this strange," he continued, as they both
gazed at him with amazement, Madame de Maintenon incredulous, and
Mademoiselle Scuderi all anxiety as to how the matter was going to turn
out, "but I tell you the truth, Madame la Marquise. Merely for the sake
of the beauty of the work, I collected some of my finest stones
together, and worked for the enjoyment of so doing, more carefully and
diligently than usual. Those ornaments disappeared from my workshop a
short time since, in an incomprehensible manner." "Heaven be thanked!"
cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, her eyes sparkling with joy. With a smile
she sprang up from her seat, and going up to Cardillac quickly and
actively as a young girl, she laid her hands on his shoulder, saying,
"Take back your treasure, Master René, which the villains have robbed
you of!" And she circumstantially related how the ornaments had come
into her possession.
Cardillac listened in silence, with downcast eyes, merely from time to
time uttering a scarcely audible "Hm! Indeed! Ah! Ho, ho!" sometimes
placing his hands behind his back, again stroking his chin and cheeks.
When she had ended, he appeared to be struggling with strange thoughts
which had come to him during her story, and seemed unable to come to
any decision satisfactory to himself. He rubbed his brow, sighed,
passed his hand over his eyes--perhaps to keep back tears. At last he
seized the casket (which Mademoiselle Scuderi had been holding out to
him), sunk slowly on one knee, and said: "Esteemed lady! Fate destined
this casket for you; and I now feel, for the first time, that I was
thinking of you when I was at work upon it--nay, was making it
expressly for you. Do not disdain to accept this work, and to wear it;
it is the best I have done for a very long time." "Ah! Master René,"
said Mademoiselle Scuderi, jesting pleasantly, "how think you it would
become me at my age to bedeck myself with those beautiful jewels?--and
what should put it in your mind to make me such a valuable present?
Come, come! If I were as beautiful and as rich as the Marquise de
Fontange, I should certainly not let them out of my hands; but what
have my withered arms, and my wrinkled neck, to do with all that
splendour?"
Cardillac had risen, and said, with wild looks, like a man beside
himself, still holding the casket out towards her, "Do me the mercy to
take it, Mademoiselle! You have no notion how profound is the reverence
which I bear in my heart for your excellences, your high deserts. Do
but accept my little offering, as an attempt, on my part, to prove to
you the warmth of my regard."
As Mademoiselle Scuderi was still hesitating, Madame de Maintenon took
the casket from Cardillac's hands, saying, "Now, by heaven,
Mademoiselle, you are always talking of your great age. What have you
and I to do with years and their burden? You are like some bashful
young thing who would fain long for forbidden fruit, if she could
gather it without hands or fingers. Do not hesitate to accept this good
Master René's present, which thousands of others could not obtain for
money or entreaty."
As she spoke she continued to press the casket on Mademoiselle Scuderi;
and now Cardillac sank again on his knees, kissed her dress, her hands,
sighed, wept, sobbed, sprang up, and ran off in frantic haste,
upsetting chairs and tables, so that the glass and porcelain crashed
and clattered together.
In much alarm, Mademoiselle Scuderi cried, "In the name of all the
saints, what is the matter with the man?" But the Marquise, in
particularly happy temper, laughed aloud, saying, "What it is,
Mademoiselle; that Master René is over head and ears in love with you,
and, according to the laws of _la galanterie_, begins to lay siege to
your heart with a valuable present." She carried this jest further,
begging Mademoiselle Scuderi not to be too obdurate towards this
despairing lover of hers; and Mademoiselle Scuderi, in her turn, borne
away on a current of merry fancies, said, "If things were so, she would
not be able to refrain from delighting the world with the unprecedented
spectacle of a goldsmith's bride of three-and-seventy summers, and
unexceptionable descent." Madame de Maintenon offered to twine the
bridal wreath herself, and give her a few hints as to the duties of a
housewife, a subject on which such a poor inexperienced little chit
could not be expected to know very much.
But, notwithstanding all the jesting and the laughter, when
Mademoiselle Scuderi rose to depart, she became very grave again when
her hand rested upon the jewel casket. "Whatever happens," she said, "I
shall never be able to bring myself to wear these ornaments. They have,
at all events, been in the hands of one of those diabolical men, who
rob and slay with the audacity of the evil one himself, and are very
probably in league with him. I shudder at the thought of the blood
which seems to cling to those glittering stones--and even Cardillac's
behaviour had something about it which struck me as being singularly
wild and eery. I cannot drive away from me a gloomy foreboding that
there is some terrible and frightful mystery hidden behind all this;
and yet, when I bring the whole affair, with all the circumstances of
it, as clearly as I can before my mental vision, I cannot form the
slightest idea what that mystery can be--and, above all, how the good,
honourable Master René--the very model of what a good, well-behaved
citizen ought to be--can have anything to do with what is wicked or
condemnable. But, at all events, I distinctly feel that I never can
wear those jewels."
The Marquise considered that this was carrying scruples rather too far;
yet, when Mademoiselle Scuderi asked her to say, on her honour, what
she would do in her place, she replied, firmly and earnestly, "Far
rather throw them into the Seine than ever put them on."
The scene with Master René inspired Mademoiselle Scuderi to write some
pleasant verses, which she read to the King the following evening, at
Madame de Maintenon's. Perhaps, for the sake of the picturing of Master
René carrying off a bride of seventy-three--of unimpeachable
quarterings--it was that she succeeded in conquering her feelings of
the imminence of something mysterious and uncanny; but at all events
she did so, completely--and the King laughed with all his heart, and
vowed that Boileau Despreaux had met with his master. So La Scuderi's
poem was reckoned the very wittiest that ever was written.
Several months had elapsed, when chance so willed it that Mlle. Scuderi
was crossing the Pont Neuf in the glass coach of the Duchesse de
Montpensier. The invention of those delightful glass coaches was then
so recent that the people came together in crowds whenever one of them
made its appearance in the streets, consequently, a gaping crowd
gathered about the Duchesse's carriage on the Pont Neuf, so that the
horses could hardly make their way along. Suddenly Mlle. Scuderi heard
a sound of quarrelling and curses, and saw a man making a way for
himself through the crowd, by means of fisticuffs and blows in the
ribs, and as he came near they were struck by the piercing eyes of a
young face, deadly pale, and drawn by sorrow. This young man, gazing
fixedly upon them, vigorously fought his way to them by help of fists
and elbows, till he reached the carriage-door, threw it open with much
violence, and flung a note into Mademoiselle Scuderi's lap; after
which, he disappeared as he had come, distributing and receiving blows
and fisticuffs. La Martinière, who was with her mistress, fell back
fainting in the carriage with a shriek of terror as soon as she saw the
young man. In vain Mademoiselle Scuderi pulled the string, and called
out to the driver. He, as if urged by the foul fiend, kept lashing his
horses till, scattering the foam from their nostrils, they kicked,
plunged, and reared, finally thundering over the bridge at a rapid
trot. Mademoiselle Scuderi emptied the contents of her smelling-bottle
out over the fainting La Martinière, who at last opened her eyes, and,
shuddering and quaking, clinging convulsively to her mistress, with
fear and horror in her pale face, groaned out with difficulty, "For the
love of the Virgin, what did that terrible man want? It was he who
brought you the jewels on that awful night." Mademoiselle Scuderi
calmed her, pointing out that nothing very dreadful had happened after
all, and that the immediate business in hand was to ascertain the
contents of the letter. She opened it, and read as follows:--
"A dark and cruel fatality, which _you_ could dispel, is driving me
into an abyss. I conjure you--as a son would a mother, in the glow of
filial affection--to send the necklace and bracelets to Master René
Cardillac, on some pretence or other--say, to have something altered,
or improved. Your welfare---your very life--depend on your doing this.
If you do not comply before the day after to-morrow, I will force my
way into your house, and kill myself before your eyes."
"Thus much is certain, at all events," said Mademoiselle Scuderi, when
she had read this letter, "that, whether this mysterious man belongs to
the band of robbers and murderers, or not, he has no very evil designs
against me. If he had been able to see me and speak to me on that
night, who knows what strange events, what dark concatenation of
circumstances would have been made known to me, of which, at present, I
seek, in my soul, the very faintest inkling in vain. But, be the matter
as it may, that which I am enjoined in this letter to do, I certainly
_shall_ do, were it for nothing else than to be rid of those fatal
jewels, which seem to me as if they must be some diabolical talisman of
the Prince of Darkness's very own. Cardillac is not very likely to let
them out of his hands again, if once he gets hold of them."
She intended to take them to him next day; but it seemed as if all the
_beaux esprits_ of Paris had entered into a league to assail and
besiege her with verses, dramas, and anecdotes. Scarce had La Chapelle
finished reading the scenes of a tragedy, and declared that he
considered he had now vanquished Racine, when the latter himself came
in, and discomfited him with the pathetic speech of one of his kings,
until Boileau sent some of his fireballs soaring up into the dark sky
of the tragedies, by way of changing the subject from that eternal one
of the colonnade of the Louvre, to which the architectural Dr. Perrault
was shackling him.
When high noon arrived, Mademoiselle Scuderi had to go to Madame
Montansier, so the visit to René Cardillac had to be put off till the
following day. But the young man was always present to her mind, and a
species of dim remembrance seemed to be trying to arise in the depths
of her being that she had, somehow and somewhen, seen that face and
features before. Troubled dreams disturbed her broken slumbers. It
seemed to her that she had acted thoughtlessly, and delayed culpably to
take hold of the hands which the unfortunate man was holding out to her
for help--in fact, as if it had depended on her to prevent some
atrocious crime. As soon as it was fairly light, she had herself
dressed, and set off to the goldsmith's with the jewels in her hand.
A crowd was streaming towards the Rue Nicaise (where Cardillac lived),
trooping together at the door, shouting, raging, surging, striving to
storm into the house, kept back with difficulty by the Marechaussée,
who were guarding the place. Amid the wild distracted uproar, voices
were heard crying, "Tear him in pieces! Drag him limb from limb, the
accursed murderer!" At length Desgrais came up with a number of his
men, and formed a lane through the thickest of the crowd. The door flew
open, and a man, loaded with irons, was brought out, and marched off
amid the most frightful imprecations of the raging populace. At the
moment when Mademoiselle Scuderi, half dead with terror and gloomy
foreboding, caught sight of him, a piercing shriek of lamentation
struck upon her ears. "Go forward!" she cried to the coachman, and he,
with a clever, rapid turn of his horses, scattered the thick masses
of the crowd aside, and pulled up close to René Cardillac's door.
Desgrais was there, and at his feet a young girl, beautiful as the day,
half-dressed, with dishevelled hair, and wild grief, inconsolable
despair in her face, holding his knees embraced, and crying in tones of
the bitterest and profoundest anguish, "He is innocent! he is
innocent!" Desgrais and his men tried in vain to shake her off, and
raise her from the ground, till at length a rough, powerful fellow,
gripping her arms with his strong hands, dragged her away from Desgrais
by sheer force. Stumbling awkwardly, he let the girl go, and she went
rolling down the stone steps, and lay like one dead on the pavement.
Mademoiselle Scuderi could contain herself no longer. "In Christ's
name!" she cried, "what has happened? What is going forward here?" She
hastily opened the carriage-door and stepped out. The crowd made way
for her deferentially; and when she saw that one or two compassionate
women had lifted up the girl, laid her on the steps, and were rubbing
her brow with strong waters, she went up to Desgrais, and with
eagerness repeated her question.
"A terrible thing has happened," said Desgrais. "René Cardillac was
found, this morning, killed by a dagger-thrust. His journeyman,
Olivier, is the murderer, and has just been taken to prison."
"And the girl----" "Is Madelon," interrupted Desgrais, "Cardillac's
daughter. The wretched culprit was her sweetheart, and now she is
crying and howling, and screaming over and over again that Olivier is
innocent--quite innocent; but she knows all about this crime, and I
must have her taken to prison too." As he spoke he cast one of his
baleful, malignant looks at the girl, which made Mademoiselle Scuderi
shudder. The girl was now beginning to revive, and breathe again
faintly, though still incapable of speech or motion. There she lay with
closed eyes, and people did not know what to do, whether to take her
indoors, or leave her where she was a little longer till she recovered.
Mademoiselle Scuderi looked upon this innocent creature deeply moved,
with tears in her eyes. She felt a horror of Desgrais and his men.
Presently heavy footsteps came downstairs, those of the men bearing
Cardillac's body. Coming to a rapid decision, Mademoiselle Scuderi
cried out, "I shall take this girl home with me; the rest of the affair
concerns you, Desgrais." A murmur of approval ran through the crowd.
The women raised the girl; every one crowded up; a hundred hands were
proffered to help, and she was borne to the carriage like one hovering
in air, whilst from every lip broke blessings on the kind lady who had
saved her from arrest and criminal trial.
Madelon lay for many hours in deep unconsciousness, but at length the
efforts of Seron---then the most celebrated physician in Paris--were
successful in restoring her. Mademoiselle Scuderi completed what Seron
had commenced, by letting many a gentle ray of hope stream into the
girl's heart, till at length a violent flood of tears, which started to
her eyes, brought her relief, and she was able to tell what had
befallen, with only occasional interruptions, when the overmastering
might of her sorrow turned her words into sobbing.
She had been awakened at midnight by a soft knocking at her door, and
had recognised the voice of Olivier, imploring her to get up at once,
as her father lay dying. She sprung up, terrified, and opened the door.
Olivier, pale and distorted, bathed in perspiration, led the way, with
tottering steps, to the workshop; she followed. There her father was
lying with his eyes set, and the deathrattle in his throat. She threw
herself upon him, weeping wildly, and then observed that his shirt was
covered with blood. Olivier gently lifted her away, and then busied
himself in bathing a wound (which was on her father's left breast) with
wound-balsam, and in washing it. As he was so doing her father's
consciousness came back; the rattle in his throat ceased, and, looking
first on her, and then on Olivier with most expressive glances, he took
her hand and placed it in Olivier's, pressing them both together. She
and Olivier then knelt down beside her father's bed; he raised himself
with a piercing cry, immediately fell back again, and with a deep
inspiration, departed this life. On this they both wept and lamented.
Olivier told her how her father had been murdered in his presence
during an expedition on which he had accompanied him that night by his
order, and how he had with the utmost difficulty carried him home, not
supposing him to be mortally wounded. As soon as it was day, the people
of the house--who had heard the sounds of the footsteps, and of the
weeping and lamenting during the night--came up, and found them still
kneeling, inconsolable by the father's body. Then an uproar commenced,
the Marechaussée broke in and Olivier was taken to prison as her
father's murderer. Madelon added the most touching account of Olivier's
virtues, goodness, piety, and sincerity, telling how he had honoured
his master as if he had been his own father, and how the latter
returned his affection in the fullest measure, choosing him for his
son-in-law in spite of his poverty, because his skill and fidelity were
equal to the nobleness of his heart. All this Madelon spoke right out
of the fullness of her heart, and added that if Olivier had thrust a
dagger into her father's heart before her very eyes, she would rather
have thought it a delusion of Satan's than have believed that Olivier
was capable of such a terrible and awful crime.
Mademoiselle Scuderi, most deeply touched by Madelon's nameless
sufferings, and quite disposed to believe in poor Olivier's innocence,
made inquiries, and found everything confirmed which Madelon had said
as to the domestic relations between the master and his workman. The
people of the house and the neighbours all gave Olivier the character
of being the very model of good, steady, exemplary behaviour. No one
knew anything whatever against him, and yet, when the crime was alluded
to, every one shrugged his shoulders, and thought there was something
incomprehensible about that.
Olivier, brought before the Chambre Ardente, denied--as Mademoiselle
Scuderi learned--with the utmost steadfastness the crime of which he
was accused, and maintained that his master had been attacked in the
street in his presence, and borne down, and that he had carried him
home still alive, although he did not long survive. This agreed with
Madelon's statement.
Over and over again Mademoiselle Scuderi had the very minutest
circumstances of the awful event related to her. She specially inquired
if there had ever been any quarrel between Olivier and the father,
whether Olivier was altogether exempt from that propensity to hastiness
which often attacks the best tempered people like a blind madness, and
leads them to commit deeds which seem to exclude all voluntariness of
action; but the more enthusiastically Madelon spoke of the peaceful
home-life which the three had led together, united in the most sincere
affection, the more did every vestige of suspicion against Olivier
disappear from her mind. Closely examining and considering everything,
starting from the assumption that, notwithstanding all that spoke so
loudly for his innocence, Olivier yet _had_ been Cardillac's murderer,
Mademoiselle Scuderi could find, in all the realm of possibility, no
motive for the terrible deed, which, in any case, was bound to destroy
his happiness. Poor, though skilful, he succeeds in gaining the good
will of the most renowned of masters; he loves the daughter--his master
favours his love. Happiness, good fortune for the rest of his life
are laid open before him. Supposing, then, that--God knows on what
impulse--overpowered by anger, he should have made this murderous
attack on his master, what diabolical hyprocrisy it required to
conduct himself after the deed as he had done. With the firmest
conviction of his innocence, Mademoiselle Scuderi came to the
resolution to save Olivier at whatever cost.
It seemed to her most advisable, before perhaps appealing to the King
in person, to go to the President, La Regnie, point out for his
consideration all the circumstances which made for Olivier's innocence,
and so, perhaps, kindle in his mind a conviction favourable to the
accused which might communicate itself beneficially to the judges.
La Regnie received her with all the consideration which was the due of
a lady of her worth, held in high esteem by His Majesty himself. He
listened in silence to all she had to say concerning Olivier's
circumstances, relationships, and character; and also concerning the
crime itself. A delicate, almost malignant, smile, however, was all the
token which he gave that the adjurations, the reminders (accompanied by
plentiful tears) that every judge ought to be, not the enemy of the
accused, but ready to attend, too, to whatever spoke in his favour were
not gliding by ears which were perfectly deaf. When at length
Mademoiselle Scuderi, quite exhausted and wiping the tears from her
cheeks, was silent, La Regnie began, saying:--
"It is quite characteristic of your excellent heart, Mademoiselle,
that, moved by the tears of a young girl who is in love, you should
credit all she says; nay, be incapable of grasping the idea of a
fearful crime such as this. But it is otherwise with the Judge, who is
accustomed to tear off the mask from vile and unblushing hyprocrisy
and deception. It is, of course, not incumbent on me to disclose the
course of a criminal process to every one who chooses to inquire. I do
my duty, Mademoiselle! The world's opinion troubles me not at all.
Evil-doers should tremble before the Chambre Ardente, which knows no
punishments save blood and fire. But by you, Mademoiselle, I would not
be looked upon as a monster of severity and barbarity; therefore,
permit me to place before your eyes in few words the bloodguilt of this
young criminal, upon whom, Heaven be thanked, vengeance has fallen.
Your acute intelligence will then despise the generous feeling and
kindliness which do honour to you, but in me would be out of place. Eh
bien! this morning René Cardillac is found murdered by a dagger-thrust,
no one is by him except his workman, Olivier Brusson and the daughter.
In Olivier's room there is found, amongst other things, a dagger
covered with fresh blood which exactly fits into the wound. Olivier
says, 'Cardillac was attacked in the street before my eyes.' 'Was the
intention to rob him?' 'I do not know.' 'You were walking with him and
you could not drive off the murderer or detain him?' 'My master was
walking fifteen or perhaps sixteen paces in front of me; I was
following him.' 'Why, in all the world, so far behind?' 'My master
wished it so.' 'And what had Master Cardillac to do in the streets so
late?' 'That I cannot say.' 'But he was never in the habit of being out
after nine o'clock at other times, was he?' At this Olivier hesitates,
becomes confused, sighs, shed tears, vows by all that is sacred that
Cardillac _did_ go out that night, and met with his death. Now observe,
Mademoiselle, it is proved to the most absolute certainty that
Cardillac did _not_ leave the house that night, consequently Olivier's
assertion that he went with him is a barefaced falsehood. The street
door of the house fastens with a heavy lock, which makes a penetrating
noise in opening and closing, also the door itself creaks and groans on
its hinges, so that, as experiments have proved, the noise is heard
quite distinctly in the upper stories of the house. Now, there lives in
the lower story, that is to say, close to the street door, old Maitre
Claude Patru with his housekeeper, a person of nearly eighty years of
age, but still hale and active. Both of them heard Cardillac, according
to his usual custom, come down stairs at nine o'clock exactly, close
and bolt the door with a great deal of noise, go upstairs again, read
evening prayer, and then (as was to be presumed by the shutting of the
door) go into his bedroom. Maitre Claude suffers from sleeplessness
like many other old people; and on the night in question he could not
close an eye, therefore, about half past nine the housekeeper struck a
light in the kitchen, which she reached by crossing the passage, and
sat down at the table beside her master with an old chronicle-book,
from which she read aloud, whilst the old man, fixing his thoughts on
the reading, sometimes sat in his arm-chair, sometimes walked slowly up
and down the room to try and bring on sleepiness. All was silence in
the house till nearly midnight; but then they heard overhead rapid
footsteps, a heavy fall, as of something on to the floor, and
immediately after that a hollow groaning. They both were struck by a
peculiar alarm and anxiety, the horror of the terrible deed which had
just been committed seemed to sweep past them. When day came what had
been done in the darkness was brought clearly to light."
"But, in the name of all the Saints," cried Mademoiselle Scuderi,
"considering all the circumstances which I have told you at such
length, can you think of any _motive_ for this diabolical deed?"
"Hm!" answered La Regnie. "Cardillac was anything but a poor man. He
had valuable jewels in his possession." "But all he had would go to the
daughter! You forget that Olivier was to be Cardillac's son-in-law."
"Perhaps he was compelled to share with others," said La Regnie, "or to
do the deed wholly for them!" "Share!--murder for others!" cried
Mademoiselle Scuderi, in utter amaze.
"You must learn, Mademoiselle," continued La Regnie, "that Olivier's
blood would have been flowing on the Place de Grève before this time,
but that his crime is connected with that deeply-hidden mystery which
has so long brooded over Paris. It is clear that Olivier belongs to
that formidable band which, setting at defiance every attempt at
observation or discovery, carries on its nefarious practices with
perfect immunity. Through him everything will, must be discovered.
Cardillac's wound is precisely the same as all those of the persons who
have been robbed and murdered in the streets and houses; and most
conclusive of all, since Olivier's arrest, the robberies and murders
have ceased; the streets are as safe by night as by day. Proof enough
that Olivier was most probably the chief of the band. As yet he will
not confess; but there are means of making him speak against his will."
"And Madelon!" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, "that truthful, innocent
creature."
"Ah!" cried La Regnie, with one of his venomous smiles, "who answers to
me that _she_ is not in the plot, too? She does not care so very much
about her father. Her tears are all for the murderer boy."
"What?" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, "not for her father?--that
girl--impossible!" "Oh!" continued La Regnie, "remember the
Brinvilliers! You must pardon me, if by-and-by I have to carry off
your _protégée_, and put her in the Conciergerie."
Mademoiselle Scuderi shuddered at this grizly notion. It seemed to her
that no truth or virtue could endure before this terrible man; as if he
spied out murder and bloodguilt in the deepest and most hidden thoughts
of people's hearts. She rose. "Be human!" was all that in her state of
anxiety and oppression she was able, with difficulty, to say. As she
was just going to descend the stairs, to which the President had
attended her with ceremonious courtesy, a strange idea came to her--she
knew not how. "Might I be allowed to see this unfortunate Olivier
Brusson?" she inquired, turning round sharply. He scrutinised her
face with thoughtful looks, and then his face distorted itself
into the repulsive smile which was characteristic of him. "Doubtless,
Mademoiselle," he said, "your idea is that, trusting your own
feelings--the inward voice--more than that which happened before our
eyes, you would like to examine into Olivier's guilt or innocence for
yourself. If you do not fear that gloomy abode of crime--if it
is not hateful to you to see those types of depravity in all their
gradations--the doors of the Conciergerie shall be opened to you in two
hours time. Olivier, whose fate excites your sympathy, shall be brought
to you."
In truth, Mademoiselle Scuderi could not bring herself to believe in
Olivier's guilt. Everything spoke against him. Indeed, no judge in the
world would have thought otherwise than La Regnie, in the face of what
had happened. But the picture of domestic happiness which Madelon had
placed before her eyes in such vivid colours, outweighed and outshone
all suspicion, so that she preferred to adopt the hypothesis of some
inscrutable mystery rather than believe what her whole nature revolted
against.
She thought she would hear Olivier's narrative of the events of that
night of mystery, and in this manner, possibly, penetrate further into
a secret which the judges, perhaps, did not see into, because they
thought it unworthy of investigation.
Arrived at the Conciergerie, she was taken into a large, well-lighted
room. Presently she heard the ring of fetters. Olivier Brusson was
brought in; but as soon as she saw him she fell down fainting. When she
recovered, he was gone. She demanded with impetuosity to be taken to
her carriage; she would not remain another moment in that place of
crime and wickedness. Alas! at the first glance she recognised in
Olivier Brusson the young man who had thrown the letter into her
carriage on the Pont Neuf, and who had brought her the casket with the
jewels. Now all doubt was gone, La Regnie's terrible suspicions
completely justified. Olivier belonged to the atrocious band, and had,
doubtless, murdered his master! And Madelon! Never before so bitterly
deceived by her kind feelings, Mademoiselle Scuderi, under this deadly
attack upon her by the power of the evil one here below--in whose very
existence she had not believed--doubted if there was such a thing as
truth. She gave admittance to the fearful suspicion that Madelon, too,
was forsworn, and might have a hand in the bloody deed. And as it is
the nature of the human mind that, when an idea has dawned upon it, it
eagerly seeks, and finds, colours in which to paint that idea more and
more vividly, she, as she weighed and considered all the circumstances
of the crime along with Madelon's behaviour, found a very great deal to
nourish suspicion. Many things which had hitherto been considered
proofs of innocence and purity, now became evidences of studied
hypocrisy and deep, corrupt wickedness. Those heartrending cries of
sorrow, and the bitter tears, might well have been pressed from her by
the deadly dread of her lover's bleeding--nay, of her own falling into
the executioner's hands. With a resolve at once to cast away the
serpent she had been cherishing, Mademoiselle Scuderi alighted
from her carriage. Madelon threw herself at her feet. Her heavenly
eyes--(no Angel of God's has them more truthful)--raised to her, her
hands pressed to her heaving breast, she wept, imploring help and
consolation. Mademoiselle Scuderi, controlling herself with difficulty,
giving to the tone of her voice as much calmness and gravity as
she could, said, "Go! go!--be thankful that the murderer awaits
the just punishment of his crime. May the Holy Virgin grant that
blood-guiltiness does not weigh heavily on your own head also." With a
bitter cry of "Alas! then all is over!" Madelon fell fainting to the
ground. Mademoiselle Scuderi left her to the care of La Martinière, and
went to another room.
Much distressed, and at variance with all earthly things, she longed to
depart from a world filled with diabolical treachery and falsehood. She
complained of the destiny which had granted her so many years in which
to strengthen her belief in truth and virtue, only to shatter in her
old days the beautiful fancies which had illumined her path.
She heard Madelon, as La Martinière was leading her away, murmur in
broken accents, "_Her_, too, have the terrible men deceived. Ah!
wretched me!--miserable Olivier!" The tones of the voice went to her
heart, and again there dawned within her the belief in the existence of
some mystery, in Olivier's innocence. Torn by the most contradictory
feelings, she cried, "What spirit of the pit has mixed _me_ up in this
terrible story, which will be my very death!"
At this moment Baptiste came in pale and terrified, to say that
Desgrais was at the door. Since the dreadful La Voisin trial the
appearance of Desgrais in a house was the sure precursor of some
criminal accusation. Hence Baptiste's terror, as to which his mistress
asked him with a gentle smile, "What is the matter, Baptiste? Has the
name of Scuderi been found in La Voisin's lists?" "Ah! For Christ's
sake," cried Baptiste, trembling in every limb, "how can you say such a
thing; but Desgrais--the horrible Desgrais--is looking so mysterious,
and presses in so--he seems hardly able to wait till he can see you."
"Well, Baptiste," she said, "bring him in at once, this gentleman who
is so frightful to you, and who to _me_, at all events, can cause no
anxiety."
"President La Regnie sends me to you, Mademoiselle," said Desgrais,
when he entered, "with a request which he scarce would dare to make if
he did not know your goodness and bravery, and if the last hope of
bringing to light an atrocious deed of blood did not lie in your hands,
had you not already taken such interest (as well as bearing a part), in
this case, which is keeping the Chambre Ardente, and all of us, in a
state of such breathless eagerness. Olivier Brusson, since he saw you,
has been almost out of his mind. He still swears by all that is sacred,
that he is completely innocent of René Cardillac's death, though he is
ready to suffer the punishment he has deserved. Observe, Mademoiselle,
that the latter admission clearly refers to other crimes of which he
has been guilty. But all attempts to get him to utter anything further
have been vain. He begs and implores to be allowed to have an interview
with you. To you alone will he divulge everything. Vouchsafe then,
Mademoiselle, to listen to Brusson's confession."
"What?" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, in indignation, "_I_ become an
organ of the criminal court, and abuse the confidence of this
unfortunate fellow to bring him to the scaffold! No! Desgrais. Ruffian
and murderer though he may be, I could never deceive and betray him
thus villainously. I will have nothing to do with his avowal. If I did,
it would be locked up in my heart, as if made to a priest under the
seal of the confessional."
"Perhaps, Mademoiselle," said Desgrais, with a subtle smile, "you might
alter your opinion after hearing Brusson. Did you not beg the President
to be human? This he is, in yielding to Brusson's foolish desire, and
thus trying one more expedient--the last--before resorting to the rack,
for which Brusson is long since ripe."
Mademoiselle Scuderi shuddered involuntarily.
"Understand, Mademoiselle," he continued, "you would by no means be
expected to go again into those gloomy dungeons, which inspired you
with such horror and loathing. Olivier would be brought to your own
house, in the night, like a free man; what he should say would not be
listened to, though, of course, there would be a proper guard with him.
He could thus tell you freely and unconstrainedly all he had to say. As
regards any risk which you might run in seeing the wretched being, my
life shall answer for that. He speaks of you with the deepest
veneration; he vows that it is the dark mystery which prevented his
seeing you earlier which has brought him to destruction. Moreover, it
would rest with you entirely to repeat as much or as little as you
pleased of what Brusson confessed to you. How could you be constrained
to more?"
Mademoiselle Scuderi sat with eyes fixed on the ground, in deep
reflection. It seemed to her that she could not but obey that Higher
Power which demanded of her the clearing up of this mystery--as if
there were no escape for her from the wondrous meshes in which she had
become inwound without her will. Coming to a rapid decision, she said
with solemnity, "God will give me self-command and firm resolution.
Bring Brusson here; I will see him."
As on the night when the jewel-casket had been brought, so now, at
midnight, there came a knocking at the door. Baptiste, properly
instructed, opened. Mademoiselle Scuderi's blood ran cold when she
heard the heavy tread of the guard party which had brought Brusson
stationing themselves about the passages.
At length the door opened, Desgrais came in, and after him, Olivier
Brusson, without irons, and respectably dressed.
"Here is Brusson, Mademoiselle," said Desgrais, bowing courteously; he
then departed at once.
Brusson sank down on both knees before Mademoiselle Scuderi. The pure,
clear expression of a most truthful soul beamed from his face, though
it was drawn and distorted by terror and bitter pain. The longer she
looked at him, the more vivid became a remembrance of some well-loved
person--she could not say whom. When the first feeling of shuddering
left her, she forgot that Cardillac's murderer was kneeling before her,
and, speaking in the pleasant tone of quiet goodwill which was natural
to her, said--
"Now, Brusson, what have you to say to me?"
He--still on his knees--sighed deeply, from profound sorrow, and then
said--
"Oh, Mademoiselle, you whom I so honour and worship, is there no trace
of recollection of me left in your mind?"
She, still looking at him attentively, answered that she had certainly
traced in his face a likeness to some one whom she had held in
affection, and it was to this that he owed it that she had overcome her
profound horror of a murderer so far as to be able to listen to him
quietly. Brusson, much pained by her words, rose quickly, and stepped
backwards a pace, with his gloomy glance fixed on the ground. Then, in
a hollow voice, he said--
"Have you quite forgotten Anne Guiot? Her son, Olivier, the boy whom
you used to dandle on your knee, is he who is now before you."
"Oh! For the love of all the Saints!" she cried, as, covering her face
with both hands, she sank back in her chair. She had reason for being
thus horrified. Anne Guiot, the daughter of a citizen who had fallen
into poverty, had lived with Mademoiselle Scuderi from her childhood;
she had brought her up like a daughter, with all affection and care.
When she grew up, a handsome, well-conducted young man, named Claude
Brusson, fell in love with her. Being a first-rate workman at his trade
of a watchmaker, sure to make a capital living in Paris, and Anne being
very fond of him, Mademoiselle Scuderi saw no reason to object to their
marrying. They set up house accordingly, lived a most quiet and happy
domestic life, and the bond between them was knitted more closely still
by the birth of a most beautiful boy, the image of his pretty mother.
Mademoiselle Scuderi made an idol of little Olivier, whom she would
take away from his mother for hours and days, to pet him and kiss him.
Hence he attached himself to her, and was as pleased to be with her as
with his mother. When three years passed, the depressed state of
Brusson's trade brought it about that job-work was scarcer every day,
so that at last it was all he could do to get bread to eat. In addition
to this came home-sickness for his beautiful native Geneva; so the
little household went there, spite of Mademoiselle Scuderi's
dissuasions and promises of all needful assistance. Anne wrote once or
twice to her foster-mother, and then ceased; so that Mademoiselle
Scuderi thought she was forgotten in the happiness of the Brusson's
life.
It was now just three and twenty years since the Brusson's had left
Paris for Geneva.
"Horrible!" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, when she had to some extent
recovered herself. "You, Olivier! the son of my Anne! And now!----"
"Mademoiselle!" said Olivier, quietly and composedly, "doubtless you
never thought that the boy whom you cherished like the tenderest of
mothers, whom you dandled on your knee, and to whom you gave
sweetmeats, would, when grown to manhood, stand before you accused of a
terrible murder. I am completely innocent! The Chambre Ardente charges
me with a crime; but, as I hope to die a Christian's death, though it
may be by the executioner's hand--I am free from all blood-guiltiness.
Not by my hand--not by any crime of my committing, was it that the
unfortunate Cardillac came to his end."
As he said this, Olivier began to tremble and shake so, that
Mademoiselle Scuderi motioned him to a little seat which was near him.
"I have had sufficient time," he went on, "to prepare myself for this
interview with you--which I look upon as the last favour of a
reconciled Heaven--and to acquire as much calmness and self-control as
are necessary to tell you the story of my terrible, unheard-of
misfortunes. Be so compassionate as to listen to me calmly, whatever
may be your horror at the disclosure of a mystery of which you
certainly have not the smallest inkling. Ah! would to Heaven my poor
father had never left Paris! As far as my recollections of Geneva carry
me, I remember myself as being always bedewed with tears by my
inconsolable parents, and weeping, myself, at their lamentations, which
I did not understand. Later, there came to me a clear sense--a full
comprehension--of the bitterest and most grinding poverty, want, and
privation in which they were living. My father was deceived in all his
expectations; bowed down and broken with sorrow, he died, just when he
had managed to place me as apprentice with a goldsmith. My mother spoke
much of you; she longed to tell you all her misfortunes, but the
despondency which springs from poverty prevented her. That, and also,
no doubt, false modesty, which often gnaws at a mortally wounded heart,
kept her from carrying out her idea. She followed my father to the
grave a few months after his death."
"Poor Anne! Poor Anne!" said Mademoiselle Scuderi, overwhelmed by
sorrow.
"I thank and praise the eternal power that she has gone where she
cannot see her beloved son fall, branded with disgrace, by the hand of
the executioner," cried Olivier, loudly, raising a wild and terrible
glance to the skies. Outside, things became unrestful; a sound of
people moving about made itself heard. "Ho, ho!" said he, with a bitter
laugh, "Desgrais is waking up his people, as if I could possibly
escape. But, let me go on. I was harshly treated by my master, though I
was very soon one of the best of workmen, and, indeed, much better than
himself. Once a stranger came to our workshop to buy some of our work.
When he saw a necklace of my making, he patted my shoulder in a kind
way, and said, looking with admiration at the necklace, 'Ah, ha! my
young friend, this is really first-class work, I don't know anybody who
could beat it but René Cardillac, who, of course, is the greatest of
all goldsmiths. You ought to go to him; he would be delighted to get
hold of you, for there's nobody but yourself who would be of such use
to him; and again, there's nobody but he who can teach you anything.'
The words of this stranger sunk deep into my heart. There was no more
peace for me in Geneva. I was powerfully impelled to leave it, and at
length I succeeded in getting free from my master. I came to Paris,
where René Cardillac received me coldly and harshly. But I stuck to my
point. He was obliged to give me something to try my hand at, however
trifling. So I got a ring to finish. When I took it back to him,
finished, he gazed at me with those sparkling eyes of his, as if he
would look me through and through. Then he said: 'You are a first-rate
man--a splendid fellow; you may come and work with me. I'll pay you
well; you'll be satisfied with me.' And he kept his word. I had been
several weeks with him before I saw Madelon, who, I think, had been
visiting an aunt of his in the country. At last she came home. O
eternal power of Heaven, how was it with me when I saw that angelic
creature! Has ever a man so loved as I! And now! Oh! Madelon!"
Olivier could speak no more for sorrow. He held both hands over his
face, and sobbed violently. At last he conquered the wild pain with a
mighty effort, and went on--
"Madelon looked on me with favour, and came oftener and oftener into
the workshop. Her father watched closely, but many a stolen hand-clasp
marked our covenant. Cardillac did not seem to notice. My idea was,
that if I could gain his good-will, and attain Master's rank, I should
ask his consent to our marriage. One morning, when I was going in to
begin work, he came to me with anger and contempt in his face. 'I don't
want any more of your work,' he said. 'Get out of this house, and don't
let my eyes ever rest on you again. I have no need to tell you the
reason. The dainty fruit you are trying to gather is beyond the reach
of a beggar like you!' I tried to speak, but he seized me and pitched
me out of the door with such violence that I fell, and hurt my head and
my arm. Furious, and smarting with the pain, I went off, and at last
found a kind-hearted acquaintance in the Faubourg St. Germain, who gave
me quarters in his garret. I had no peace nor rest. At night I wandered
round Cardillac's house, hoping that Madelon would hear my sighs and
lamentings, and perhaps manage to speak to me at the window
undiscovered. All sorts of desperate plans, to which I thought I might
persuade her, jostled each other in my brain. Cardillac's house in the
Rue Nicaise abuts on to a high wall with niches, containing old,
partly-broken statues. One night I was standing close to one of those
figures, looking up at the windows of the house which open on the
courtyard which the wall encloses. Suddenly I saw light in Cardillac's
workshop. It was midnight, and he never was awake at that time, as he
always went to bed exactly at nine. My heart beat anxiously: I thought
something might be going on which would let me get into the Louse. But
the light disappeared again immediately. I pressed myself closely into
the niche, and against the statue; but I started back in alarm, feeling
a return of my pressure, as if the statue had come to life. In the
faint moonlight I saw that the stone was slowly turning, and behind it
appeared a dark form, which crept softly out, and went down the street
with stealthy tread. I sprang to the statue: it was standing close to
the wall again, as before. Involuntarily, as if impelled by some power
within me, I followed the receding dark figure. In passing an image of
the Virgin, this figure looked round, the light of the lamp before the
image falling upon his face. It was Cardillac! an indescribable alarm
fell upon me; an eery shudder came over me. As if driven by some spell,
I felt I must follow this spectre-like sleep-walker--for that was what
I thought my master was, though it was not full-moon, the time when
that kind of impulse falls upon sleepers. At length Cardillac
disappeared in a deep shadow; but, by a certain easily distinguishable
sound, I knew that he had gone into the entry of a house. What was the
meaning of this? I asked myself in amazement; what was he going to be
about? I pressed myself close to the wall. Presently there came up a
gentleman, trilling and singing, with a white plume distinct in the
darkness, and clanking spurs. Cardillac darted out upon him from the
darkness, like a tiger on his prey; he fell to the ground gasping. I
rushed up with a cry of terror. Cardillac was leaning over him as he
lay on the ground. 'Master Cardillac, what are you about?' I cried
aloud. 'Curses upon you!' he cried, and, running by me with lightning
speed, disappeared. Quite beyond myself--scarcely able to walk a
step--I went up to the gentleman on the ground, and knelt down beside
him, thinking it might still be possible to save him. But there was no
trace of life left in him. In my alarm I scarcely noticed that the
Marechaussée had come up and surrounded me. 'Another one laid low by
the demons!' they cried, all speaking at once. 'Ah, ha! youngster! what
are you doing here?--are _you_ one of the band?' and they seized me. I
stammered out in the best way I could that I was incapable of such a
terrible deed, and that they must let me go. Then one of them held a
lantern to my face, and said, with a laugh: 'This is Olivier Brusson;
the goldsmith who works with our worthy Master René Cardillac. _He_
murder folks in the street!--very likely story! Who ever heard of a
murderer lamenting over the body, and letting himself be nabbed? Tell
us all about it, my lad; out with it straight.' 'Right before my eyes,'
I said, 'a man sprang out upon this one; stabbed him, and ran off like
lightning. I cried as loud as I could. I wanted to see if he could be
saved.' 'No, my son,' cried one of those who had lifted up the body,
'he's done for!--the dagger-stab right through his heart, as usual.'
'The deuce!' said another; 'just too late again, as we were the day
before yesterday.' And they went away with the body.
"What _I_ thought of all this I really cannot tell you. I pinched
myself, to see if I were not in some horrible dream. I felt as if I
must wake up directly, and marvel at the absurdity of what I had been
dreaming. Cardillac--my Madelon's father--an atrocious murderer! I had
sunk down powerless on the stone steps of a house; the daylight was
growing brighter and brighter. An officer's hat with a fine plume was
lying before me on the pavement. Cardillac's deed of blood, committed
on the spot, came clearly back to my mental vision. I ran away in
horror.
"With my mind in a whirl, almost unconscious, I was sitting in my
garret, when the door opened, and René Cardillac came in. 'For Christ's
sake! what do you want?' I cried. He, paying no heed to this, came up
to me, smiling at me with a calmness and urbanity which increased my
inward horror. He drew forward an old rickety stool, and sat down
beside me; for I was unable to rise from my straw bed, where I had
thrown myself. 'Well, Olivier,' he began, 'how is it with you, my poor
boy? I really was too hasty in turning you out of doors. I miss you at
every turn. Just now I have a job in hand which I shall never be able
to finish without you; won't you come back and work with me? You don't
answer. Yes, I know very well I insulted you. I don't hide from you
that I was angry about your little bit of love-business with my
Madelon; but I have been thinking matters well over, and I see that I
couldn't have a better son-in-law than you, with your abilities, your
skilfulness, diligence, trustworthiness. Come back with me, and see how
soon you and Madelon can make a match of it.'
"His words pierced my heart; I shuddered at his wickedness; I could not
utter a syllable. 'You hesitate,' he said, in an acrid tone, while his
sparkling eyes transfixed me. 'Perhaps you can't come to-day. You have
other things to do. Perhaps you want to go and see Desgrais, or have an
interview with D'Argenson or La Regnie. Take care, my boy, that the
talons which you are thinking of drawing out to clutch others, don't
mangle yourself.' At this my deeply-tried spirit found vent. 'Those,' I
said, 'who are conscious of horrible crimes may dread those names which
you have mentioned, but I do not. I have nothing to do with them.'
'Remember, Olivier,' he resumed, 'that it is an honour to you to work
with me--the most renowned Master of his time, everywhere highly
esteemed for his truth and goodness; any foul calumny would fall back
on the head of its originator. As to Madelon, I must tell you that it
is her alone whom you have to thank for my yielding. She loves you with
a devotion that I should never have given her credit for being capable
of. As soon as you were gone, she fell at my feet, clasped my knees,
and vowed, with a thousand tears, that she could never live without
you. I thought this was mere imagination, for those young things always
think they're going to die of love whenever a young wheyface looks at
them a little kindly. But my Madelon really did fall quite sick and
ill; and when I tried to talk her out of the silly nonsense, she called
out your name a thousand times. Last evening I told her I gave in and
agreed to everything, and would go to-day to fetch you; so this morning
she is blooming again like any rose, and waiting for you, quite beyond
herself with love-longing.' May the eternal power of Heaven forgive me,
but--I don't know how it came about--I suddenly found myself in
Cardillac's house, where Madelon, with loud cries of 'Olivier!--my
Olivier!--my beloved! my husband!' clasped both her arms about me, and
pressed me to her heart; whilst I, in the plenitude of the supremest
bliss, swore by the Virgin and all the Saints never, never to leave
her."
Overcome by the remembrance of this decisive moment, Olivier was
obliged to pause. Mademoiselle Scuderi, horrified at the crime of a man
whom she had looked on as the incarnation of probity and goodness,
cried--
"Dreadful!--René Cardillac a member of that band of murderers who have
so long made Paris into a robber's den!" "A member of the band, do you
say, Mademoiselle?" said Olivier. "There never was any band; it was
René Cardillac alone, who sought and found his victims with such an
amount of diabolical ingenuity and activity. It was in the fact of his
being alone that his impunity lay--the practical impossibility of
coming upon the murderer's track. But let me go on. What is coming will
clear up the mystery, and reveal the secrets of the most wicked, and at
the same time most wretched of all mankind. You at once see the
position in which I now stood towards my master. The step was taken,
and I could not go back. At times it seemed to me that I had rendered
myself Cardillac's accomplice in murder, and it was only in Madelon's
love that I forgot for a time the inward pain which tortured me; only
in her society could I drive away all outward traces of the nameless
horror. When I was at work with the old man in the workshop, I could
not look him in the face--could scarcely speak a word--for the horror
which pervaded me in the presence of this terrible being, who fulfilled
all the duties of the tender father and the good citizen, while the
night shrouded his atrocities. Madelon, pure and pious as an angel,
hung upon him with the most idolatrous affection. It pierced my heart
when I thought that, if ever vengeance should overtake this masked
criminal, she would be the victim of the most terrible despair. That,
of itself, closed my lips, though the consequence of my silence should
be a criminal's death for myself. Although much was to be gathered from
what the Marechaussée had said, still Cardillac's crimes, their motive,
and the manner in which he carried them out, were a riddle to me. The
solution of it soon came. One day Cardillac--who usually excited my
horror by laughing and jesting during our work, in the highest of
spirits--was very grave and thoughtful. Suddenly he threw the piece of
work he was engaged on aside, so that the pearls and other stones
rolled about the floor, started to his feet, and said: 'Olivier! things
cannot go on between us like this; the situation is unendurable. What
the ablest and most ingenious efforts of Desgrais and his myrmidons
failed to find out, chance has played into your hands. You saw me at my
nocturnal work, to which my Evil Star compels me, so that no resistance
is possible for me; and it was your own Evil Star, moreover, which led
you to follow me; wrapped and hid you in an impenetrable mantle; gave
that lightness to your foot-fall which enabled you to move along with
the noiselessness of the smaller animals, so that I--who see clear by
night, as doth the tiger, and hear the smallest sound, the humming of
the gnat, streets away--did not observe you. Your Evil Star brought you
to me, my comrade--my accomplice! You see, now, that you can't betray
me; therefore you shall know all.'
"I would have cried out, 'Never, never shall I be your comrade, your
accomplice, you atrocious miscreant.' But the inward horror which I
felt at his words paralysed my tongue. Instead of words I could only
utter an unintelligible noise. Cardillac sat down in his working chair
again, wiped the perspiration from his brow, and seemed to find it
difficult to pull himself together, hard beset by the recollection of
the past. At length he began: 'Wise men have much to say of the strange
impulses which come to women when they are _enceinte_, and the strange
influence which those vivid, involuntary impulses exercise upon the
child. A wonderful tale is told of _my_ mother. When she was a month
gone with me she was looking on, with other women, at a court pageant
at the Trianon, and saw a certain cavalier in Spanish dress, with a
glittering chain of jewels about his neck, from which she could not
remove her eyes. Her whole being was longing for those sparkling
stones, which seemed to her more than earthly. This same cavalier had
at a previous time, before my mother was married, had designs on her
virtue, which she rejected with indignation. She recognized him, but
now, irradiated by the light of the gems, he seemed to her a creature
of a higher sphere, the very incarnation of beauty. The cavalier
noticed the longing, fiery looks which she was bending on him, and
thought he was in better luck now than of old. He managed to get near
her, and to separate her from her companions, and entice her to a
lonely place. There he clasped her eagerly in his arms. My mother
grasped at the beautiful chain; but at that moment he fell down,
dragging her with him. Whether it was apoplexy, or what, I do not know;
but he was dead. My mother struggled in vain to free herself from the
clasp of the arms, stiffened as they were in death. With the hollow
eyes, whence vision had departed, fixed on her, the corpse rolled with
her to the ground. Her shrieks at length reached people who were
passing at some distance; they hastened to her, and rescued her from
the embrace of this gruesome lover. Her fright laid her on a bed of
dangerous sickness. Her life was despaired of as well as mine; but she
recovered, and her confinement was more prosperous than had been
thought possible. But the terrors of that awful moment had set their
mark on _me_. My Evil Star had risen, and darted into me those rays
which kindled in me one of the strangest and most fatal of passions.
Even in my earliest childhood I thought there was nothing to compare
with glittering diamonds with gold settings. This was looked upon as a
childish fancy; but it was otherwise, for as a boy I stole gold and
jewels wherever I could lay hands on them, and I knew the difference
between good ones and bad, instinctively, like the most accomplished
connoisseur. Only the pure and valuable attracted me; I would not touch
alloyed or coined gold. Those inborn cravings were kept in check by my
father's severe chastisements; but, so that I might always have to do
with gold and precious stones, I took up the goldsmith's calling. I
worked at it with passion, and soon became the first living master of
that art. Then began a period when the natural bent within me, so long
restrained, shot forth in power, and waxed with might, bearing
everything away before it. As soon as I finished a piece of work and
delivered it, I fell into a state of restlessness and disconsolateness
which prevented my sleeping, ruined my health, and left me no enjoyment
in my life. The person for whom I made the work haunted me day and
night like a spectre--I saw that person continually before my mental
vision, with my beautiful jewels on, and a voice kept whispering to me:
'They belong to you! take them; what's the use of diamonds to the
dead?' At last I betook myself to thieving. I had access to the houses
of the great; I took advantage quickly of every opportunity. No locks
withstood my skill, and I soon had my work back in my hands again. But
this was not enough to calm my unrest. That mysterious voice made
itself heard again, jeering at me, and saying, 'Ho, ho! one of the dead
is wearing your jewels.' I did not know whence it came, but I had an
indescribable hatred for all those for whom I made jewelry. More than
that, in the depths of my heart I began to long to kill them; this
frightened me. Just then I bought this house. I had concluded the
bargain with the owner: here in this very room we were sitting,
drinking a bottle of wine in honour of the transaction. Night had come
on, he was going to leave when he said to me: 'Look here, Maitre René,
before I go I must let you into a secret about this house.' He opened
that cupboard, which is let into the wall there, and pushed the back of
it in; this let him into a little closet, where he bowed down and
raised a trap-door. This showed us a steep, narrow stair, which we went
down, and at the bottom of it was a little narrow door, which let us
out into the open courtyard. There he went up to the wall, pushed a
piece of iron which projected a very little, and immediately a piece of
the wall turned round, so that a person could get out through the
opening into the street. You must see this contrivance sometime,
Olivier; the sly old monks of the convent, which this house once was,
must have had it made so as to be able to slip out and in secretly. It
is wood but covered with lime and mortar on the outside, and to the
outer side of it is fitted a statue, also of wood, though _looking_
exactly like stone, which turns on wooden hinges. When I saw this
arrangement, dark ideas surged up in my mind; it seemed to me that
deeds, as yet mysterious to myself, were here pre-arranged for. I had
just finished a splendid set of ornaments for a gentleman of the
court who, I knew, was going to give them to an opera dancer. My
death-torture soon was on me; the spectre dogged my steps, the whispering
devil was at my ear. I went back into the house, bathed in a sweat of
agony; I rolled about on my bed, sleepless. In my mind's eye I saw the
man gliding to his dancer with _my_ beautiful jewels. Full of fury I
sprang up, threw my cloak round me, went down the secret stair, out
through the wall into the Rue Nicaise. He came, I fell upon him, he
cried out; but, seizing him from behind, I plunged my dagger into his
heart. The jewels were mine. When this was done, I felt a peace, a
contentment within me which I had never known before. The spectre had
vanished--the voice of the demon was still. _Now_ I knew what was the
behest of my Evil Star, which I had to obey, or perish. You know all
now, Olivier. Don't think that, because I must do that which I cannot
avoid, I have clean renounced all sense of that mercy or kindly feeling
which are the portion of all humanity, and inherent in man's nature.
You know how hard I find it to let any of my work go out of my hands,
that there are many whom I would not have to die for whom nothing will
induce me to work; indeed, that in cases when I feel that, next day, my
spectre will have to be exorcised with blood, that day I settle the
business by a swashing blow, which lays the holder of my jewels on the
ground, so that I get them back into my own hands.' Having said all
this, Cardillac took me into his secret strong-room and showed me his
collection of jewels; the King does not possess such an one. To each
ornament was fastened a small label stating for whom it had been made,
and when taken back--by theft, robbery, or murder.
"'On your wedding day, Olivier,' he said, in a solemn tone, 'you will
swear me a solemn oath, with your hand on the crucifix, that as soon as
I am dead you will at once convert all those treasures into dust,
by a process which I will tell you of. I will not have any human
being, least of all Madelon and you, come into possession of those
blood-bought stones.'
"Shut up in this labyrinth of crime, torn in twain by love and
abhorrence, I was like one of the damned to whom a glorified angel
points, with gentle smile, the upward way, whilst Satan holds him down
with red-hot talons, and the angel's loving smile, reflecting all the
bliss of paradise, becomes, to him, the very keenest of his tortures. I
thought of flight, even of suicide, but Madelon! Blame me, blame me,
Mademoiselle, for having been too weak to overcome a passion which
fettered me to my destruction. I am going to atone for my weakness by a
shameful death. One day Cardillac came in in unusually fine spirits, he
kissed and caressed Madelon, cast most affectionate looks at me, drank,
at table, a bottle of good wine, which he only did on high-days and
holidays, sang, and made merry. Madelon had left us, and I was going to
the workshop 'Sit still, lad,' cried Cardillac, 'no more work to-day;
let's drink the health of the most worthy and charming lady in all
Paris.' When we had clinked our glasses, and he had emptied a bumper,
he said: 'Tell me, Olivier, how do you like those lines?
'Un amant qui craint les voleurs
N'est point digne d'amour.'
And he told me what had happened between you and the King in Madam de
Maintenon's salon, adding that he had always worshipped you more than
any other human being, and that his reverence and esteem for your
qualities was such that his Evil Star paled before you, and he would
have no fear that, were you to wear the finest piece of his work that
ever he made, the spectre would ever prompt him to thoughts of murder.
'Listen, Olivier,' he said, 'to what I am going to do. A considerable
time ago I had to make a necklace and bracelets for Henrietta of
England, supplying the stones myself. I made of this the best piece of
work that ever I turned out, and it broke my heart to part with those
ornaments, which had become the very treasures of my soul. You know of
her unfortunate death by assassination. The things remained with me,
and now I shall send them to Mademoiselle Scuderi, in the name of the
dreaded band, as a token of respect and gratitude. Besides its being an
unmistakable mark of her triumph, it will be a richly deserved sign of
my contempt for Desgrais and his men. You shall take her the jewels.'
When he mentioned your name, Mademoiselle, dark veils seemed to be
taken away, revealing the bright image of my happy early childhood,
rising again in glowing colours before me. A wonderful comfort came
into my soul, a ray of hope, driving the dark shadows away. Cardillac
saw the effect his words had produced upon me, and gave it his own
interpretation. 'My idea seems to please you,' he said. 'I must declare
that a deep inward voice, very unlike that which cries for blood like a
raving wild beast, commanded me to do this thing. Many times I feel the
strangest ideas come into my mind--an inward fear, the dread of
something terrible, the awe whereof seems to come breathing into this
present time from some distant other world, seizes powerfully upon me.
I even feel, at such times, that the deeds which my Evil Star has
committed by means of me, may be charged to the account of my immortal
soul, though it has no part in them. In one of those moods I determined
that I would make a beautiful diamond crown for the Virgin in the
Church of St. Eustache. But the indescribable dread always came upon
me, stronger than ever, when I set to work at it, so that I left it off
altogether. Now it seems to me that, in presenting Mademoiselle Scuderi
with the finest work I have ever turned out, I am offering a humble
sacrifice to goodness and virtue personified, and imploring their
powerful intercession.' Cardillac, well acquainted with all the minutiæ
of your manner of life, told me the how and the when to take the
ornaments to you. My whole Being rejoiced, for Heaven seemed to be
showing me, through the atrocious Cardillac, the way to escape from the
hell in which I was being tortured. Quite contrarily to Cardillac's
wish, I resolved that I would get access to you and speak with you. As
Anne Brusson's son, and your former pet, I thought I would throw myself
at your feet and tell you everything. Out of consideration for the
nameless misery which a disclosure of the secret would bring upon
Madelon, I knew that you would keep it, but that your grand and
brilliant intellect would have been sure to find means to put an end to
Cardillac's wickedness without disclosing it. Do not ask me what those
means were to have been; I cannot tell. But that you would rescue
Madelon and me I believed as firmly as I do in the intercession of the
Holy Virgin. You know, Mademoiselle, that my intention was frustrated
that night; but I did not lose hope of being more fortunate another
time. By-and-by Cardillac suddenly lost all his good spirits; he crept
moodily about, uttered unintelligible words, and worked his arms as if
warding off something hostile. His mind seemed full of evil thoughts.
For a whole morning he had been going on in this way. At last he sat
down at the work-table, sprang up again angrily, looked out of window,
and then said, gravely and gloomily, 'I wish Henrietta of England had
had my jewels.' Those words filled me with terror. I knew that his
diseased mind was possessed again by the terrible murder-spectre, that
the voice of the demon was loud again in his ears. I saw your life
threatened by the horrible murder-demon. If Cardillac could get his
jewels back again into his hands, you were safe. The danger grew
greater every instant. I met you on the Pont Neuf, made my way to your
carriage, threw you the note which implored you to give the jewels back
to Cardillac immediately. You did not come. My fear became despair,
when, next day, Cardillac spoke of nothing but the priceless jewels he
had seen before him in his dreams. I could only suppose that this
referred to _your_ jewels, and I felt sure he was brooding over some
murderous attack, which he had determined to carry out that night. Save
you I must, should it cost Cardillac's life. When, after the evening
prayer, he had shut himself up in his room as usual, I got into the
courtyard through a window, slipped out through the opening of the
wall, and stationed myself close at hand, in the deepest shadow. Very
soon Cardillac came out, and went gliding softly down the street. I
followed him. He took the direction of the Rue St. Honoré. My heart
beat fast. All at once he disappeared from me. I determined to place
myself at your door. Just as fate had ordered matters on the first
occasion of my witnessing one of his crimes, there came along past me
an officer, trilling and singing; he did not see me. Instantly a dark
form sprang out and attacked him. Cardillac! I determined to prevent
this murder. I gave a loud shout, and was on the spot in a couple of
paces. Not the officer, but Cardillac, fell gasping to the ground,
mortally wounded. The officer let his dagger fall, drew his sword, and
stood on the defensive, thinking I was the murderer's accomplice. But
he hastened away when he saw that, instead of concerning myself about
_him_, I was examining the fallen man. Cardillac was still alive. I
took up the dagger dropped by the officer, stuck it in my belt, and,
lifting Cardillac on to my shoulders, carried him, with difficulty, to
the house, and up the secret stair to the workshop. The rest you know.
You perceive, Mademoiselle, that my only crime was that I refrained
from giving Madelon's father up to justice, thereby making an end of
his crimes. I am innocent of bloodguilt. No torture will draw from me
the secret of Cardillac's iniquities. Not through any action of mine
shall that Eternal Power, which hid from Madelon the gruesome
bloodguilt of her father all this time, break in upon her now, to her
destruction, nor shall earthly vengeance drag the corpse of Cardillac
out of the soil which covers it, and brand the mouldering bones with
infamy. No; the beloved of my soul shall mourn me as an innocent
victim. Time will mitigate her sorrow for me, but her grief for her
father's terrible crimes nothing would ever assuage."
Olivier ceased, and then a torrent of tears fell down his cheeks.
He threw himself at Mademoiselle Scuderi's feet, saying imploringly,
"You are convinced that I am innocent; I know you are. Be merciful
to me. Tell me how Madelon is faring." Mademoiselle Scuderi summoned
La Martinière, and in a few minutes Madelon was clinging to Olivier's
neck. "Now that you are here, all is well. I knew that this
noble-hearted lady would save you," Madelon cried over and over; and
Olivier forgot his fate, and all that threatened him. He was free and
happy. They bewailed, in the most touching manner, what each had
suffered for the other, and embraced afresh, and wept for joy at being
together again.
Had Mademoiselle Scuderi not been convinced of Olivier's innocence
before, she must have been so when she saw those two lovers forgetting,
in the rapture of the time, the world, their sufferings, and their
indescribable sorrows. "None but a guiltless heart," she cried, "would
be capable of such blissful forgetfulness."
The morning light came breaking into the room, and Desgrais knocked
gently at the door, reminding them that it was time to take Olivier
away, as it could not be done later without attracting attention. The
lovers had to part.
The dim anticipations which Mademoiselle Scuderi had felt when Olivier
first came in had now embodied themselves in actual life--in a
terrible fashion. The son of her much-loved Anne was, though innocent,
implicated in a manner which apparently made it impossible to save him
from a shameful death. She admired his heroism, which led him to prefer
death loaded with the imputation of guilt to the betrayal of a secret
which would kill Madelon. In the whole realm of possibility, she could
see no mode of saving the unfortunate lad from the gruesome prison and
the dreadful trial. Yet it was firmly impressed on her mind that she
must not shrink from any sacrifice to prevent this most crying
injustice.
She tortured herself with all kinds of plans and projects, which were
chiefly of the most impracticable and impossible kind--rejected as soon
as formed. Every glimmer of hope grew fainter and fainter, and she
well-nigh despaired. But Madelon's pious, absolute, childlike
confidence, the inspired manner in which she spoke of her lover, soon
to be free, and to take her to his heart as his wife, restored
Mademoiselle Scuderi's hopes to some extent.
By way of beginning to do something, she wrote to La Regnie a long
letter, in which she said that Olivier Brusson had proved to her in the
most credible manner his entire innocence of Cardillac's murder, and
that nothing but a heroic resolution to carry to the grave with him a
secret, the disclosure of which would bring destruction upon an
innocent and virtuous person, withheld him from laying a statement
before the Court which would completely clear him from all guilt, and
show that he never belonged to the band at all. She said everything she
could think of, with the best eloquence at her command, which might be
expected to soften La Regnie's hard heart.
He replied to this in a few hours, saying he was very glad that Olivier
had so thoroughly justified himself in the eyes of his kind patron and
protector; but, as regarded his heroic resolution to carry to the grave
with him a secret relating to the crime with which he was charged, he
regretted that the Chambre Ardente could feel no admiration for heroism
of that description, but must endeavour to dispel it by powerful means.
In three days time he had little doubt he would be in possession of the
wondrous secret, which would probably bring many strange matters to
light.
Mademoiselle Scuderi knew well what the terrible La Regnie meant by the
"powerful means," which were to break down Olivier's heroism. It was
but too clear that the unfortunate wretch was threatened with the
torture. In her mortal anxiety it at last occurred to her that, were it
only to gain time, the advice of a lawyer would be of some service.
Pierre Arnaud d'Andilly was at that time the most celebrated advocate
in Paris. His goodness of heart, and his highly honourable character
were on a par with his professional skill and his comprehensive mind.
To him she repaired, and told him the whole tale, as far as it was
possible to do so without divulging Olivier's secret. She expected that
d'Andilly would warmly espouse the cause of this innocent man, but in
this she was wofully disappointed. He listened silently to what she had
to say, and then, with a quiet smile, answered in the words of Boileau,
"Le vrai peut quelquefois n'etre point vraisemblable." He showed her
that there were the most grave and marked suspicions against Olivier.
That La Regnie's action was by no means severe or premature, but wholly
regular; indeed, that to do otherwise would be to neglect his duty as a
Judge. He did not believe that he--d'Andilly--could save Brusson from
the rack, by the very ablest of pleading. Nobody could do that but
Brusson himself, either by making the fullest confession, or by
accurately relating the circumstances of Cardillac's murder, which
might lead to further discoveries.
"Then I will throw myself at the King's feet and sue for mercy," cried
Mademoiselle Scuderi, her voice choked by weeping.
"For Heaven's sake, do not do that," cried d'Andilly. "Keep it in
reserve for the last extremity. If it fails you once, it is lost for
ever. The King will not pardon a criminal such as Brusson; the people
would justly complain of the danger to them. Possibly Brusson, by
revealing his secret, or otherwise, may manage to dispel the suspicion
which is on him at present. Then would be the time to resort to the
King, who would not ask what was legally proved, but be guided by his
own conviction."
Mademoiselle Scuderi could not but agree with what d'Andilly's great
experience dictated. She was sitting in her room, pondering as to
what--in the name of the Virgin and all the saints--she should try next
to do, when La Martinière came to say that the Count de Miossens,
Colonel of the King's Body Guard, was most anxious to speak with her.
"Pardon me, Mademoiselle," said the Colonel, bowing with a soldier's
courtesy, "for disturbing you, and breaking in upon you at such an
hour. Two words will be sufficient excuse for me. I come about Olivier
Brusson."
"Olivier Brusson," cried Mademoiselle Scuderi, all excitement as to
what she was going to hear, "that most unfortunate of men! What have
you to say of him?"
"I knew," said Miossens, laughing again, "that your _protégé's_ name
would ensure me a favourable hearing. Everybody is convinced of
Brusson's guilt. I know you think otherwise, and, it is said, your
opinion rests on what he himself has told you. With me the case is
different. Nobody can be more certain than I that Brusson is innocent
of Cardillac's death."
"Speak! Oh, speak!" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi.
"I was the man who stabbed the old goldsmith, in the Rue St. Honoré,
close to your door," said the Colonel.
"_You_--_you!_" cried Mademoiselle Scuderi. "In the name of all the
Saints, how?"
"And I vow to you, Mademoiselle, that I am very proud of my
achievement. Cardillac, I must tell you, was a most abandoned old
hypocritical ruffian, who went about at night robbing and murdering
people, and was never suspected of anything of the kind. I don't,
myself, know from whence it came, that I felt a suspicion of the old
scoundrel when he seemed so distressed at handing me over some work
which I had got him to do for me, when he carefully wormed out of me
for whom I designed it, and cross-questioned my valet as to the times
when I was in the habit of going to see a certain lady. It struck me
long ago, that all the people who were murdered by the unknown hands,
had the self-same wound, and I saw quite clearly, that the murderer had
practised to the utmost perfection of certainty that particular thrust,
which must kill instantaneously--and that he reckoned upon it; so that,
if it were to fail, the fight would be fair. This led me to employ a
precaution so very simple and obvious, that I cannot imagine how
somebody else did not think of it long ago. I wore a light breastplate
of steel under my dress. Cardillac set upon me from behind. He grasped
me with the strength of a giant, but his finely directed thrust glided
off the steel breast-plate. I then freed myself from his clutch, and
planted my dagger into his heart."
"And you have said nothing?" said Mademoiselle Scuderi. "You have not
told the authorities anything about this?"
"Allow me to point out to you, Mademoiselle," said he, "that to have
done that would have involved me in a most terrible legal
investigation, probably ending in my ruin. La Regnie, who scents out
crime everywhere, would not have been at all likely to believe me at
once, when I accused the good, respectable, exemplary Cardillac of
being an habitual murderer. The sword of Justice would, most probably,
have turned its point against me."
"Impossible," said Mademoiselle Scuderi. "Your rank--your position----"
"Oh!" interrupted Miossens, "remember the Marechal de Luxemburg; he
took it into his head to have his horoscope cast by Le Sage, and was
suspected of poisoning, and put in the Bastille. No; by Saint Dyonys!
not one moment of freedom--not the tip of one of my ears, would I trust
to that raging La Regnie, who would be delighted to put his knife to
all our throats."
"But this brings an innocent man to the scaffold," said Mademoiselle
Scuderi.
"Innocent, Mademoiselle!" cried Miossens. "Do you call Cardillac's
accomplice an innocent man? He who assisted him in his crimes, and has
deserved death a hundred times? No, in verity; _he_ suffers justly;
although I told you the true state of the case in the hope that you
might somehow make use of it in the interests of your _protégé_,
without bringing me into the clutches of the Chambre Ardente."
Mademoiselle Scuderi, delighted at having her conviction of Olivier's
innocence confirmed in such a decided manner, had no hesitation in
telling the Count the whole affair, since he already knew all about
Cardillac's crimes, and in begging him to go with her to d'Andilly, to
whom everything should be communicated under the seal of secrecy, and
who should advise what was next to be done.
D'Andilly, when Mademoiselle Scuderi had told him at full length all
the circumstances, inquired again into the very minutest particulars.
He asked Count Miossens if he was quite positive as to its having been
Cardillac who attacked him, and if he would recognise Olivier as the
person who carried away the body.
"Not only," said Miossens, "was the moon shining brightly, so that I
recognised the old goldsmith perfectly well, but this morning, at La
Regnie's, I saw the dagger with which he was stabbed. It is mine; I
know it by the ornamentation of the handle. And as I was within a pace
of the young man, I saw his face quite distinctly, all the more because
his hat had fallen off. As a matter of course I should know him in a
moment."
D'Andilly looked before him in meditation for a few moments, and said:
"There is no way of getting Brusson out of the hands of justice by any
ordinary means. On Madelon's account, nothing will induce him to admit
that Cardillac was a robber and a murderer. And even were he to do so,
and succeed in proving the truth of it by pointing out the secret
entrance and the collection of the stolen jewels, death would be his
own lot, as an accomplice. The same consequence would follow if Count
Miossens related to the judges the adventure with Cardillac. Delay is
what we must aim at. Let Count Miossens go to the Conciergerie, be
confronted with Olivier, and recognise him as the person who carried
off Cardillac's body; let him then go to La Regnie, and say, 'I saw a
man stabbed in the Rue St. Honoré, and was close to the body when
another man darted up, bent down over it, and finding life still in it,
took it on his shoulders and carried it away. I recognise Olivier
Brusson as that man.' This will lead to a further examination of
Brusson, to his being confronted with Count Miossens; the torture will
be postponed, and further investigations made. Then will be the time to
have recourse to the King. Your brilliant intellect, Mademoiselle, will
point out the most fitting way to do this. I think it would be best to
tell His Majesty the whole story. Count Miossen's statement will
support Olivier's. Perhaps, too, an examination of Cardillac's house
would help matters. The King might then follow the bent of his own
judgment--of his kind heart, which might pardon where justice could
only punish." Count Miossens closely followed D'Andilly's advice, and
everything fell out just as he had said it would.
It was now time to repair to the King; and this was the chief
difficulty of all, as he had such an intense horror of Brusson--whom he
believed to be the man who had for so long kept Paris in a state of
terror--that the least allusion to him threw him at once into the most
violent anger. Madame de Maintenon, faithful to her system of never
mentioning unpleasant subjects to him, declined all intermediation; so
that Brusson's fate was entirely in Mademoiselle Scuderi's hands. After
long reflection, she hit upon a scheme which she put in execution at
once. She put on a heavy black silk dress, with Cardillac's jewels, and
a long black veil, and appeared at Madame de Maintenon's at the time
when she knew the King would be there. Her noble figure in this
mourning garb excited the reverential respect even of those frivolous
persons who pass their days in Court antechambers. They all made way
for her, and when she came into the presence, the King himself rose,
astonished, and came forward to meet her. The splendid diamonds of the
necklace and bracelets flashed in his eyes, and he cried: "By Heavens!
Cardillac's work!" Then, turning to Madame de Maintenon, he said, with
a pleasant smile, "See, Madame la Marquise, how our fair lady mourns
for her affianced husband." "Ah, Sire!" said Mademoiselle Scuderi, as
if keeping up the jest, "it would ill become a mourning bride to wear
such bravery. No; I have done with the goldsmith; nor would I remember
him, but that the gruesome spectacle of his corpse carried close by me
before my eyes keeps coming back to my memory." "What!" said the King,
"did you actually see him, poor fellow?" She then told him in few words
(not introducing Brusson into the business at all) how chance had
brought her to Cardillac's door just when the murder had been
discovered. She described Madelon's wild terror and sorrow; the
impression made upon her by the beautiful girl; how she had taken her
out of Desgrais's hands, and away with her, amid the applause of the
crowd. The scenes with La Regnie, with Desgrais, with Olivier Brusson
himself, now followed, the interest constantly increasing. The King,
carried away by the vividness with which Mademoiselle Scuderi told the
tale, did not notice that the Brusson case, which he so abominated, was
in question, listened breathlessly, occasionally expressing his
interest by an ejaculation. And ere he was well aware, still amazed by
the marvels which he was hearing, not yet able to arrange them all in
his mind, behold! Mademoiselle Scuderi was at his feet, imploring mercy
for Olivier Brusson.
"What are you doing?" broke out the King, taking both her hands and
making her sit down. "You take us by storm in a marvellous fashion. It
is a most terrible story! Who is to answer for the truth of Brusson's
extraordinary tale?" "Miossen's deposition proves it," she cried; "the
searching of Cardillac's house; my own firm conviction, and, ah!
Madelon's pure heart, which recognises equal purity in poor Brusson."
The King, about to say something, was interrupted by a noise in the
direction of the door. Louvois, who was at work in the next room, put
his head in with an anxious expression. The King rose, and followed him
out. Both Madame de Maintenon and Mademoiselle Scuderi thought this
interruption of evil augury; for, though once surprised into interest,
the King might take care not to fall into the snare a second time. But
he came back in a few minutes, walked up and down the room two or three
times, quickly, and then, pausing with his hands behind his back before
Mademoiselle Scuderi, he said, in a half-whisper, without looking at
her: "I should like to see this Madelon of yours." On this Mademoiselle
Scuderi said: "Oh! gracious Sire! what a marvellous honour you
vouchsafe to the poor unfortunate child. She will be at your feet in an
instant." She tripped to the door as quickly as her heavy dress
allowed, and called to those in the anteroom that the King wished to
see Madelon Cardillac. She came back weeping and sobbing with delight
and emotion. Having expected this, she had brought Madelon with her,
leaving her to wait with the Marquise's maid, with a short petition in
her hand drawn up by D'Andilly. In a few moments she had prostrated
herself, speechless, at the King's feet. Awe, confusion, shyness, love,
and sorrow sent the blood coursing faster and faster through her veins;
her cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled with the bright tear-drops, which
now and again fell from her silken lashes down to her beautiful lily
breast. The King was moved by the wonderful beauty of the girl. He
raised her gently, and stooped down as if about to kiss her hand, which
he had taken in his; but he let the hand go, and gazed at her with
tears in his eyes, evincing deep emotion. Madame de Maintenon whispered
to Mademoiselle Scuderi: "Is she not exactly like La Valliére, the
little thing? The King is sunk in the sweetest souvenirs: you have
gained the day." Though she spoke softly, the King seemed to hear. A
blush came to his cheek; he scanned Madame de Maintenon with a glance,
and then said, gently and kindly: "I am quite sure that you, my dear
child, think your lover is innocent; but we must hear what the Chambre
Ardente has to say." A gentle wave of his hand dismissed Madelon,
bathed in tears. Mademoiselle Scuderi saw, to her alarm, that the
resemblance to La Valliére, advantageous as it had seemed to be at
first, had nevertheless changed the King's intention as soon as Madame
de Maintenon had spoken of it. Perhaps he felt himself somewhat
ungently reminded that he was going to sacrifice strict justice to
beauty; or he may have been like a dreamer who, when loudly addressed
by his name, finds that the beautiful magic visions by which he thought
he was surrounded vanish away. Perhaps he no longer saw his La Valliére
before him, but thought only of S[oe]ur Louise de la Misericorde--La
Valliére's cloister name among the Carmelite nuns--paining him with her
piety and repentance. There was nothing for it now but to patiently
wait for the King's decision.
Meanwhile Count Miossen's statement before the Chambre Ardente had
become known; and, as often happens, popular opinion soon flew from one
extreme to the other, so that the person whom it had stigmatized as the
most atrocious of murderers, and would fain have torn in pieces before
he reached the scaffold, was now bewailed as the innocent victim of a
barbarous sacrifice. His old neighbours only now remembered his
admirable character and behaviour, his love for Madelon, and the
faithfulness and devotion of soul and body with which he had served his
master. Crowds of people, in threatening temper, often collected before
La Regnie's Palais, crying, "Give us out Olivier Brusson!--he is
innocent!" even throwing stones at the windows, so that La Regnie had
to seek the protection of the Marechaussée.
Many days elapsed without Mademoiselle Scuderi's hearing anything on
the subject of Olivier Brusson. In her disconsolateness she went to
Madame de Maintenon, who said the King was keeping silence on the
subject, and it was not advisable to remind him of it. When she then,
with a peculiar smile, asked after the "little La Valliére,"
Mademoiselle Scuderi saw that this proud lady felt, in the depths of
her heart, some slight annoyance at a matter which had the power of
drawing the mobile King into a province whose charm was beyond her own
sphere. Consequently nothing was to be hoped from Madame de Maintenon.
At length Mademoiselle Scuderi managed to find out, with D'Andilly's
help, that the King had had a long interview with Count Miossens;
further, that Bontems, the King's confidential groom of the chamber and
secret agent, had been to the Conciergerie, and spoken with Brusson;
that, finally, the said Bontems, with several other persons, had paid a
long visit to Cardillac's house. Claude Patru, who lived in the lower
story, said he had heard banging noises above his head in the night,
and that he had recognised Olivier's voice amongst others. So far it
was certain that the King was, himself, causing the matter to be
investigated; but what was puzzling was the long delay in coming to a
decision. La Regnie was most probably trying all in his power to
prevent his prey from slipping through his fingers; and this nipped all
hope in the bud.
Nearly a month had elapsed, when Madame de Maintenon sent to tell
Mademoiselle Scuderi that the King wished to see her that evening in
her salon.
Her heart beat fast. She knew that Olivier's fate would be decided that
night. She told Madelon so, and the latter prayed to the Virgin and all
the Saints that Mademoiselle Scuderi might succeed in convincing the
King of her lover's innocence.
And yet it appeared as if he had forgotten the whole affair, for he
passed the time in chatting pleasantly with Madame de Maintenon and
Mademoiselle Scuderi, without a single word of poor Olivier Brusson. At
length Bontems appeared, approached the King, and spoke a few words so
softly that the ladies could not hear them. Mademoiselle Scuderi
trembled; but the King rose, went up to her, and said, with beaming
eyes, "I congratulate you, Mademoiselle. Your protégé, Olivier Brusson,
is free." Mademoiselle Scuderi, with tears streaming down her cheeks,
unable to utter a word, would have cast herself at the King's feet; but
he prevented her, saying, "Va! Va! Mademoiselle, you ought to be my
Attorney-General and plead my causes, for nobody on earth can resist
your eloquence and powers of persuasion." He added, more gravely, "He
who is shielded by virtue may snap his fingers at every accusation, by
the Chambre Ardente, or any other tribunal on earth."
Mademoiselle Scuderi, now finding words, poured forth a most glowing
tribute of gratitude. But the King interrupted her, saying there were
warmer thanks awaiting her at home than any he could expect from her,
as at that moment doubtless Olivier was embracing his Madelon.
"Bontems," added His Majesty, "will hand you 1000 Louis, which you will
give the little one from me as a wedding portion. Let her marry her
Brusson, who does not deserve such a treasure, and then they must both
leave Paris. This is my will."
La Martinière came to meet her mistress with eager steps, followed by
Baptiste, their faces beaming with joy, and both crying out, "He is
here! he is free! Oh, the dear young couple!" The happy pair fell at
Mademoiselle Scuderi's feet, and Madelon cried, "Ah! I knew that you,
and you only, would save my husband." "Mother," cried Olivier, "my
belief in you never wavered." They kissed her hands, and shed many
tears; and then they embraced again, and vowed that the super-earthly
bliss of the present time was worth all the nameless sufferings of the
days that were past.
In a few days the priest pronounced his blessing upon them. Even had it
not been the King's command that they were to leave Paris, Brusson
could not have remained there, where everything reminded him of the
dreadful epoch of Cardillac's atrocities, and where any accident might
have disclosed the evil secret, already known to several persons,
destroying the peace of his life for ever. Immediately after the
wedding he started with his young wife for Geneva, sped on his way by
Mademoiselle Scuderi's blessings. Handsomely provided with Madelon's
portion, his own skill at his calling, and every civic virtue, he there
led a happy life, without a care. The hopes, whose frustration had sent
the father to his grave, were fulfilled to the son.
A year after Brusson left Paris, a public proclamation, signed by
Harloy de Chauvalon, Archbishop of Paris, and by Pierre Arnaud
d'Andilly, Advocate of the Parliament, appeared, stating that a
repentant sinner had, under seal of confession, made over to the Church
a valuable stolen treasure of gold and jewels. All those who, up to
about the end of the year 1680, had been robbed of property of this
description, particularly if by murderous attack in the street, were
directed to apply to d'Andilly, when they would receive it back,
provided that anything in the said collection agreed with the
description to be by them given, and providing that there was no doubt
of the genuineness of the application. Many whose names occurred in
Cardillac's list as having been merely stunned, not murdered, came from
time to time to d'Andilly to reclaim their property, and received it
back, to their no small surprise. The remainder became the property of
the Church of St. Eustache."
Sylvester's tale was received by the Brethren with their full approval.
It was held to be truly Serapiontic, because, whilst founded on
historical fact, it yet soared into the region of the imaginative.
Lothair said: "Our Sylvester has got very well out of a somewhat risky
undertaking, for that, I consider, was the representing of a literary
old maid who kept a sort of _bureau d'esprit_ in the Rue St. Honoré,
which he lets us have a peep into. Our own authoresses (and if they
chance to be advanced in years, I hope they may all be genial, kind,
and dignified as the old lady in the black dress) would be much
delighted with you, my Sylvester, if they heard your story, and forgive
you your somewhat gruesome and terrible Cardillac, whom, I suppose, you
have altogether to thank your own imagination for."
"At the same time," said Ottmar, "I remember having read, somewhere or
other, of an old shoemaker in Venice, whom the whole town looked upon
as a good, exemplary, industrious man, though he really was the most
atrocious robber and murderer. Just like Cardillac, he used to slip out
in the night-time and get into the palazzi of the great, where, in the
depths of darkness, his surely-dealt dagger-thrust pierced the hearts
of those whom he wanted to rob, so that they dropped down on the spot
without a cry. Every effort of the most clever and observant police to
detect this murderer, who kept all Venice in terror, was useless, until
a circumstance led to the shoemaker's being suspected. He fell sick,
and, strange to say, as long as he was confined to his bed there were
no murders. They began again as soon as he was well. On some pretext he
was put in prison, and, just as was expected, so long as he was shut up
the palaces were in security; but the moment he got out (there being no
proof of anything against him) the victims fell just as before. Finally
the rack extracted his secret, and he was executed. A strange thing was
that he had made no use whatever of the stolen property; it was all
found stowed away under the flooring of his room. He said, in the
naïvest manner, that he had made a vow to St. Rochus, the patron of his
craft, that he would get together a certain, pretty considerable, sum
by robbery, and then stop; and complained of the hardship of having
been apprehended before the said sum was arrived at."
"I never heard of the Venetian shoemaker," said Sylvester; "but if I am
truly to tell you the source from whence I drew, I must inform you that
the words spoken by Mademoiselle Scuderi, 'Un amant qui craint les
voleurs,' &c., were really made use of by her, in almost similar
circumstances to those of my story. Also the affair of the offering
from the band of robbers is by no means a creature of the brain of the
felicitously inspired writer. The account of that you will find in a
book where you certainly would not look for it, Wagenseil's 'Nuernberg
Chronicle.' The old gentleman speaks of a visit he made to Mademoiselle
Scuderi in Paris, and if I have succeeded in representing her as
charming and delightful, I am indebted solely to the distinguished
_courtoisie_ with which Wagenseil mentions her."
"Verily," said Theodore, laughing, "to stumble upon Mademoiselle
Scuderi in the 'Nuernberg Chronicle' requires an author's lucky hand,
such as Sylvester is specially gifted with. In fact, he shines on us
to-night in his double capacity of playwright and story-teller, like
the constellation of the Dioscuri."
"That is just where he seems to me so vain," said Vincenz. "A man who
writes a good play ought not to set to work to tell a good tale as
well."
"Yet it is strange," said Cyprian, "that authors who can tell a story
well, who manage their characters and situations cleverly, often fail
altogether in drama for the stage."
"But," said Lothair, "are not the conditions of drama and of narrative
so essentially different in their fundamental elements, that the
attempt to turn a story into a play is very often a complete failure?
You understand that I am speaking of true narrative, not of the novel,
so much, because that has often in it germs from which the drama can
grow up like a glorious, beautiful tree."
"What do you think," asked Vincenz, "of the admirable idea of making a
story out of a play? Some years ago I read Iffland's 'Jaeger' turned
into a story, and you can't believe how delightful and touching little
Anton with the couteau de chasse, and Riekchen with the lost shoe, were
in this shape. It was delightful, too, that the author, or adapter,
preserved whole scenes unchanged, merely putting in the 'said he,' and
'answered she,' between the speeches. I assure you I did not wholly
realise the truly poetic imagination, and the deep sublimity which
there is in Iffland's 'Jaeger,' until I read it in this form. Moreover,
the scientific side of it struck me then, and I saw how properly it was
classed in a certain library under the head 'Science of Forestry.'"
"Cease your funning," said Lothair, "and lend, with us, an attentive
ear to the worthy Serapion Brother who, as I perceive, has just pulled
a manuscript out of his pocket."
"This time," said Theodore, "I have trespassed upon another's ground.
However, there is a real incident at the basis of my story, not taken
from any book, but told to me by another."
He read:--
GAMBLERS' FORTUNE.
In the summer of 18-- Pyrmont was more than usually frequented, and the
influx of visitors, rich and great, increased from day to day, exciting
the eager emulation of the various speculators and purveyors of their
wants. Particularly did the faro-table keepers heap up piles of gold in
unusual quantity, for the attraction of the noble game, which, like
experienced sportsmen, they set themselves to decoy. As we all know, at
watering-places especially--where people resolve to give themselves up,
at their own sweet will, to whatever amusements may be most to their
taste, to get through the time---the attractions of the play-table are
not easy to resist. We see people who never touch a card at other
times, absorbed at those tables; and, in fact, among the upper classes,
at all events, it is thought only a proper thing to stake something
every evening.
There was but one exception to this otherwise universal rule, in the
person of a young German Baron, whom we shall call Siegfried. When
everybody else rushed to the tables, and there was no way left to him
to amuse himself in what he considered a rational manner, he preferred
taking a lonely walk, yielding to the play of his fancy, or would stay
at home, amusing himself with a book, or sometimes writing something
himself.
He was young, independent, good-looking, well off, pleasant in manners,
so of course he was very popular, and his success with the other sex
was distinguished. But besides all this, there appeared to be a special
lucky star watching over everything he undertook. People talked of many
love-affairs, comprising risky adventures of which he had been the
hero, which, though certain to have proved disastrous to most men, he
had got out of with marvellous ease and facility. Old gentlemen who
knew him would speak, particularly, of the affair of a certain watch,
which had happened in his very early days. It chanced, before he came
to his majority, that, on a journey, he unexpectedly found himself in
such a strait for money that, to get on at all, he had to sell his
watch, a beautiful gold one set with brilliants. Seeing no alternative,
he had made up his mind to part with it much under its value; but
it so happened that, in the hotel where he was living, there was a
young prince who was on the look-out for just such a watch; so
that he got more for it than it was worth. Rather more than a year
afterwards--having come to his majority in the meantime--he read in the
newspaper, at another place where he was, that a watch was going to be
raffled. He took a ticket, costing only a trifle, and won the very
watch set in brilliants which he had sold. Soon afterwards, he swopped
this watch away for a valuable ring. Presently, having been for a time
in the service of the Prince of G----, as he was leaving, the Prince
gave him, as a souvenir, the self-same watch which he had twice got rid
of--and a handsome chain into the bargain.
Then, people went on to talk about Siegfried's fancy of never touching
a card--which, considering his extraordinary luck, he ought to be just
the man to do; and everybody came to the conclusion that, in spite of
all his delightful qualities, the Baron was a screw; far too canny to
risk a little of his cash. That his whole conduct completely excluded
the idea of his being avaricious, didn't matter. People are always
anxious, and delighted to fasten an objectionable "but" on to a man of
gifts, and to find out this "but" wherever they can, be it only in
their own imaginations. So everybody was quite satisfied with this
explanation of Siegfried's hatred of the play-table.
He very soon found out what he was accused of; and, being large-minded
and liberal--hating nothing so much as avarice--he determined to show
his calumniators how much they were mistaken, and--much as he detested
play--sacrifice a hundred Louis d'Ors or so--more if necessary--to
prove to them their error. He went to the faro-table with the firm
resolution to lose the rather considerable sum which he had in his
pocket. But the luck which accompanied him in everything he set about
was true to him here too. Everything he staked on won. His luck
shipwrecked the cabalistic calculations of the old, deeply experienced
gamblers. It was all the same whether he exchanged his cards, or stuck
to them; he always won. He furnished a unique instance of a _ponteur_
wild with disgust because the cards favoured him. The by-standers,
watching him, shook their heads significantly at each other, implying
that the Baron might come to lose his head, carried along by this
concatenation of the unusual. For indeed, a man who was furious because
he was lucky, must surely be a _little_ off his head.
The very circumstance that he had won a considerable sum necessitated
him to go on playing; and as this gain must, in all probability, be
followed by a still greater loss, he felt bound to carry out his
original plan. However, he found it not so easy; his extraordinary luck
continued to stick to him.
Without his exactly noticing it himself, a love for the game of Faro
arose within him, and grew. In its very simpleness, Faro is, in truth,
the most mysterious of all games.
He was not annoyed at being lucky _now_. The game fettered his
attention, and kept him absorbed in it, night after night, till
morning. As it was not the winning which interested him, but the game
itself, he was forced to admit the existence of that extraordinary
_spell_ connected with it which his friends had spoken of to him, but
which he had refused to believe in.
One night when the banker had just finished a "taille," on looking up
he saw an elderly man, who had placed himself opposite to him, and was
keeping a grave, melancholy gaze fixed upon him. And every time
Siegfried looked up from his game, he found this grave, melancholy gaze
still fixed upon him, so that he could not divest himself of a strong,
rather eery sensation. The Stranger did not go away till the playing
was over for the night. Next evening he was there again, in his old
place opposite the Baron, gazing at him continually, with his gloomy,
spectral eves. The Baron restrained himself; but when, on the third
night, the Stranger was there again, gazing at him with eyes of
devouring fire, Siegfried broke out: "I must really beg you, sir, to
select some other place. You are interfering with my play."
The stranger bowed, with a pained smile, and, without a word, left the
table, and the room.
But the following night he was standing in his old place, opposite to
Siegfried, transfixing him with his gloomy, glowing eyes. The Baron
broke out more angrily than on the previous night. "If it is any
entertainment to you, sir, to glare at me in that sort of manner, I
must beg you to select another place and another time. But--for the
present"--a motion of the hand in the direction of the door took the
place of the hard words which the Baron had on the tip of his tongue.
And, as on the previous night, the Stranger, bowing with the same
pained smile, left the room. Excited by the game, by the wine he had
taken, and by the encounter with the Stranger, Siegfried could not
sleep. When morning broke, the whole appearance of the Stranger rose to
his memory. He saw the expressive face, the well-cut features, marked
with sorrow, the hollow gloomy eyes which had gazed at him. He noticed
that though he was poorly dressed, his refined manners and bearing
spoke of good birth and up-bringing. And then the way in which he had
received the hard words with quiet resignation, and gone away,
swallowing the bitterness of his feelings with a power over himself.
"Oh!" said Siegfried, "I was wrong--I did him great injustice. Is it
like me to fly into a passion, and insult people without rhyme or
reason, like a foolish boy?" He came to the conclusion that the man had
been gazing at him with a bitter sense of the tremendous contrast
between them. At the moment when he--perhaps--was in the depths of
distress, the Baron was heaping gold on the top of gold, and carrying
all before him. He determined that the first thing in the morning he
would go and find out the Stranger, and do something to remedy his
condition.
And, as fate would have it, the Stranger was the first person he met,
as he was taking a walk down the Alleé.
The Baron addressed him, apologised for his behaviour on the previous
night, and formally asked him to forgive him. The Stranger said there
was nothing to forgive. People who were much interested in their game
must have every consideration, and he quite deserved to be reminded
that he was obstinately planting himself in a place where he could not
but put the Baron out in his play.
The Baron went further. He spoke of the circumstance that in life
temporary difficulties often come upon people of education in the most
trying manner, and he gave him pretty clearly to understand that he
was ready to pay him back the money he had won from him, or more, if
necessary, should that be likely to be of any assistance to him.
"My dear sir," said the Stranger, "you suppose that I am pressed for
money. Strictly speaking, I am not. Although I am rather a poor man
than a rich, I have enough for my little requirements. And you will see
in a moment, if you consider, that if you should suppose you could
atone for an insult to me by offering me a sum of money, I could not
accept it, even as a mere ordinary man of honour. And I am a
Chevalier."
"I think I understand you," said the Baron; "I am quite ready to give
you satisfaction in the way you mean."
"Oh, good heavens!" the Stranger said; "what a very unequal affair a
fight would be between us. I feel sure that, like myself, you do not
look upon the duel as a mere piece of childish fanfaronade, nor
consider that a drop or two of blood--perhaps from a scratched
finger--can wash a stained honour white again. No, no! there are plenty
of causes which render it impossible for two men to go on existing on
this earth at the same time. Although one of them may be on the
Caucasus and the other on the Tiber, there is no separation between
them so long as the notion of the existence of the hated one subsists.
In a case like that the duel, which is to decide the question which of
those two is to make way on this earth for the other, is a positive
necessity. But between _us_ a duel, as I said, would be one-sided,
since my life is nothing like as valuable as yours. If I killed you I
should destroy a whole world of the fairest hopes. But if I fell, you
would end a miserable existence, marred by the most bitter and painful
memories. However, the chief point is that I do not consider myself in
the smallest degree offended. You told me to go, and I went."
He spoke the latter words in a tone which betrayed his inward
mortification, which was sufficient reason for the Baron to apologise
to him once more, laying special weight on the circumstance that the
Stranger's gaze seemed somehow (he could not tell why) to go
penetrating into him to such an extent that he could bear it no longer.
"If my gaze penetrated you, as you say it did," said the Stranger,
"would to God it had carried with it the conviction of the threatening
peril in which you stand. In your gladness of heart, with all your
youthful unknowingness, you are hovering on the very brink of a
terrible abyss. One single impulse, and into it you fall, without the
possibility of rescue. In one word, you are on the point of becoming a
passionate gambler, and of going to perdition."
The Baron assured him that he was completely mistaken. He explained to
him how it was that he had been led at first to go to the tables, and
that the true love of play was completely absent from him--that all he
desired was to lose a few hundred louis, and, having accomplished that,
he would play no more; but that, up to this time, he had had the most
extraordinary luck.
"Alas!" cried the Stranger, "it is just that very luck which is the
most terrible, mocking temptation of the Infernal Power. Just this very
luck of yours, Baron, the whole way in which you have been led on to
play, the whole style of your playing, and everything connected with
the matter, show but too plainly how your interest in it keeps on
increasing and increasing. Everything about it reminds me only too
clearly of the fate of an unfortunate fellow who begun exactly as you
have done. This was why I could not take my eyes from you, why I could
scarce refrain from telling you in words what my eyes intended to say
to you, namely, 'For heaven's sake look at the fiends that are
stretching out their talons to drag you down to perdition;' that is
what I longed to cry out to you. I wished to make your acquaintance,
and in that I have succeeded. Let me tell you the story of the
unfortunate man to whom I have referred, and then perhaps you will see
that it is no idle cobweb of my brain which makes me see you to be in
the most imminent peril, and that I give you fair warning."
They sate down on a seat which was in a lonely place, and the Stranger
commenced as follows. "The same brilliant gifts which distinguish you,
Baron, procured for the Chevalier Menars the respect and admiration of
men, and rendered him the beloved of women. Only as far as wealth was
concerned fortune had not been so kind to him as to you. He was on the
confines of penury, and nothing but the most scrupulous economy enabled
him to keep up the decent appearance which his position as the
descendant of a family of condition demanded of him. Since the very
smallest loss of money would have been of much consequence to him,
upsetting all his course of life, he was precluded from everything in
the shape of play. But he had not the smallest inclination for it, so
that his avoidance of it involved not the slightest sacrifice on his
part. He was excessively lucky in whatever he undertook, so that his
good fortune became a species of proverb.
"Contrarily to his habit he allowed himself to be persuaded one night
to go to a gambling-house, where the friends who were with him were
soon deep in the game.
"Taking no interest in the game, with his mind fully occupied about
something else, he strolled up and down the room, just now and then
casting a glance at the table, where the gold was streaming in upon the
banquier from every side. All at once an elderly Colonel observed him,
and cried out, 'Oh, the devil! here's the Chevalier Menars, with his
luck, and none of us can win because he hasn't taken a side. This won't
do. He must stake for me instantly.'
"The Chevalier tried his utmost to excuse himself, saying he knew
nothing about the game. But nothing would serve the Colonel but that he
must to the table willy nilly.
"It happened to him exactly as it did to you, Baron. He won on every
card, so that he soon had hauled in a considerable sum for the Colonel,
who could not congratulate himself enough on the great idea he had been
inspired with of availing himself of the celebrated luck of the
Chevalier Menars.
"On the Chevalier himself his luck, which so astonished all the others,
made not the slightest impression. Nay, he did not himself quite
understand how it came about that his detestation of play, if possible,
increased, so that the next morning, when he felt the languor and
listlessness consequent on having sat up so late, and gone through the
excitement, he made a firm resolution that nothing would ever induce
him to enter a gambling-house again.
"This resolution was strengthened by the conduct of the old Colonel,
who had the most extraordinary ill-luck as soon as he took a card in
his hand, and attributed this, in the most absurd way, to the
Chevalier. And he insisted, in the most importunate manner, that Menars
should either play his cards for him, or at all events be at his side
when he played himself, by way of exorcising the demon who placed
in his hand the losing cards. We know that nowhere is there such
absurd superstition as amongst gamblers. It was only with the utmost
difficulty that Menars managed to shake the Colonel off. He had even to
go the length of telling him he would rather fight him than stake for
him; and the Colonel was by no means fond of fighting. The Chevalier
cursed himself for ever having yielded to the old ass at all.
"Of course the story of the Chevalier's luck could not but be passed on
from one to another, with all sorts of mysterious, inexplicable
additions added on to it, representing him as a man in league with
supernatural powers. But that one who had his luck should go on
abstaining from touching cards was a thing which could not but give the
highest idea of the firmness of his character, and much increase the
consideration in which he was held.
"A year after this the Chevalier found himself in the most pressing and
distressing embarrassment in consequence of the non-payment to him of
the trifling sum on which he managed by a struggle to live. He was
obliged to confide this to his most intimate friend, who, without a
moment's hesitation, helped him to what he required, at the same time
telling him he was the most extraordinary, eccentric individual the
world had ever probably contained.
"'Destiny,' he said, 'gives us hints, indications of the direction in
which we have to seek and find our welfare, and it is only our
indolence which is to blame when we neglect those hints and fail to
understand them. The Power which rules over us has very distinctly
whispered into your ear, "If thou wouldest have money and possessions,
go and play; otherwise thou wilt for ever remain poor, needy,
dependent."'
"Then, for the first time, the thought of the wonderful luck he had
had at the faro table rose vividly before his mind's eye, and, waking
and dreaming, he saw cards before him, and heard the monotonous
_gagne-perd_ of the banquier, and the clink of the gold pieces.
"'It is true,' he said to himself, 'a single night like that one would
raise me out of poverty, and free me from the terrible necessity of
being a burden on my friends. It is simply a duty to follow the
promptings of Destiny.'
"The same friend who advised him to take to playing went with him to
the table, and, to make him easy in his mind, presented him with twenty
louis d'or.
"If his game had been an extraordinary one when he was staking for the
old Colonel, it was doubly so now. He drew out his cards by chance, by
accident, and staked on them, whatever they happened to be. And the
unseen hand of that higher Power, which is in league with that which we
term 'Chance'--nay, which _is_ that Chance--directed his play. When the
game was done he had won 1000 louis d'or.
"Next morning he felt in a sort of stupor on awaking. The money was
lying on the table by his bed, just as he had shaken it out of his
pockets. At first he thought he was dreaming. He rubbed his eyes and
drew the table nearer to him. But as he gradually recollected what had
happened--when he sunk his hands well into the heap of gold money, and
counted the coins delightedly over and over again--suddenly there awoke
in him, and passed through his being like a poisoned breath, the love
of the vile mammon. The pureness of mind which had so long been his was
gone.
"He could scarcely wait till evening came to get back to the
play-table. His luck continued to attend him, so that in a few weeks,
during which he played every night, he had won a very large sum.
"There are two sorts of gamblers. To many the game in itself presents
an indescribable, mysterious joy, quite without any reference to
winning. The wonderful enchainments of the chances alternate in the
most marvellous variety; the influence of the Powers which govern the
issue displays itself, so that, inspired by this, our spirits stretch
their wings in an attempt to reach that darksome realm, that mysterious
laboratory, where the Power in question works, and there see it
working. I knew a man once who used to sit alone in his room for days
and nights keeping banque, and staking against himself. That man, I
consider, was a proper player. Others have only the gain in view, and
look upon the game as a means of winning money quickly. The Chevalier
belonged to the latter class, thereby proving the theory that the true
passion for play must exist in a person's nature, and be born with him.
"For this reason the circle within which the mere ponteur is restricted
soon became too narrow for him. With the very large sum he had now won
he started a banque of his own; and here, too, fortune favoured him, so
that in a very short time his was the richest banque in Paris. As lies
in the nature of things, to him, as the luckiest, richest banquier,
resorted the greatest number of players.
"The wild rugged life of a gambler soon blotted out in him all those
mental and bodily superiorities which had formerly brought him love and
consideration. He ceased to be a faithful friend, an open-hearted
pleasant companion, a chivalric and gallant honourer of ladies. His
love for art and science was extinguished, as well as all his wish to
make progress in knowledge of the desirable sort. In his deathly pale
countenance and gloomy eyes, sparkling with darksome fire, was
imprinted the plain expression of that devouring passion which held him
fast in its bands. It was not the love of play, it was the most
detestable avarice, the craving for money, which the Devil himself had
kindled within him. In one word, he was the most thorough specimen of a
banquier ever seen.
"One night--though he had not, so to speak, lost very much--he found
that fortune had not been quite so favourable to him as usual. And just
at this juncture there came up to the table a little old weazened man,
in poverty-stricken clothes, and altogether of almost disgustingly
repulsive appearance. He drew a card, with shaking hand, and staked a
piece of gold on it. Several of those at the table looked at him with
deep amazement, and immediately behaved towards him with conspicuous
despite; but he took not the slightest notice, not even by a look, far
less by a word.
"He lost--lost one piece of gold after another, and the more he lost
the better the other players were pleased. And when the old man, who
kept on doubling his stakes, at last staked five hundred louis on a
card, and lost it in a moment, one of them cried out, laughing loud,
'Well done, Signor Vertua; keep it up! Don't give in; keep up your
game! You seem to me as if you would certainly break the bank, your
luck is so splendid!'
"The old man darted a basilisk look at him, and ran off out of the room
as quickly as he could; but only to come back in half an hour, with his
pockets crammed with gold. When the final _taille_ came he could not go
on, as he had lost all the money he brought with him the second time.
"The Chevalier, who, notwithstanding all the atrocity of his ongoings,
still insisted on there being a certain observance of ordinary
_convenance_ amongst the frequenters of his establishment, had been in
the highest degree displeased at the derision and contempt with which
the old man had been treated, which was sufficient reason for his
talking very seriously, when the evening's play was over, to the man
who had jeered at him, and to one or two others whose contemptuous
behaviour to him had been the most striking, and whom the Chevalier had
begged to remain behind on purpose.
"'That fellow,' one of them cried out. 'You don't know old Francesco
Vertua, Chevalier, or you wouldn't find fault with us for what we did.
You would rather thank us. This Vertua, by birth a Neapolitan, has been
for fifteen years here, in Paris, the most vile, foul, wicked miser and
usurer that could exist. He is lost to every feeling of humanity. If
his own brother were to drag himself to his door, writhing in the death
agony, and curl round about his feet, he wouldn't give a louis d'or to
help him. The curses and execrations of heaps of people, whole families,
whom he has driven to ruin by his infernal machinations, lie heavy on
him. There is nobody who does not pray that vengeance for what he has
done, and is always doing, may overtake him and finish his sin-spotted
life. He has never played, at all events since he has been in Paris,
and you need not be astonished at our surprise when we saw the old
skinflint come to the table. Of course we were just as delighted at
his losing, for it would have been altogether too bad if fortune had
favoured the scoundrel. The wealth of your banque has dazzled the old
noodle. He thought he was going to pluck you, but he has lost his own
feathers. But the thing I can't understand is how he can have made up
his miserly mind to play so high.'
"This, however, did not prove well founded, for the next night Vertua
made his appearance, and staked and lost a great deal more than on the
night before. He was quite impassible all the time; in fact, he now and
then smiled with a bitter irony, as one who knew how utterly
differently everything would soon turn. But his losses swelled like a
mountain avalanche on each of the succeeding nights, so that at last it
was calculated that he had lost to the banque well on to thirty
thousand louis d'or. After this, he came one night, long after the play
had begun, pale as death, with his face all drawn, and stationed
himself at some distance from the table, with his eyes fixed on the
cards which the Chevalier was dealing. At last, when the Chevalier had
shuffled, had the cards cut, and was going to begin the deal, the old
man cried out, in a screaming voice, 'Stop!' Every one looked round,
almost terrified. The old man elbowed his way through the crowd close
up to the Chevalier, and whispered into his ear, 'Chevalier, my house
in the Rue St. Honoré, with all its contents, in furniture, gold,
silver, and jewels, is valued at eighty thousand francs. I stake it! Do
you accept?'
"'Yes,' said the Chevalier calmly, without looking at him, and began to
deal.
"'Queen!' said the old man, and the queen lost. The old man fell back,
and leaned against the wall, motionless as a stone image. Nobody
troubled himself further about him. When the game was over for the
night, and the Chevalier and his croupiers were packing away the won
money in the strong box, Vertua came wavering like a spectre forward
out of his corner. In a hollow, faint voice, he said, 'One word,
Chevalier; one single word.'
"'Well, what is it?' said the Chevalier, taking the key from the box
and putting it in his pocket, as he surveyed the old man contemptuously
from head to foot.
"'I have lost all I possessed in the world to your banque, Chevalier.
I have nothing left--nothing. I don't know where I shall lay my head
to-morrow, or how I shall appease my hunger. I betake myself to you.
Lend me the tenth part of the sum you have won from me, that I may
recommence my business, and raise myself from the depths of poverty.'
"'How can you be so absurd, Signor Vertua,' said the Chevalier. 'Don't
you know that a banquier never lends his winnings? It would be against
all the rules, and I abide by them.'
"'You are right, Chevalier,' said Vertua. 'What I asked was absurd,
extravagant. Not a tenth part--lend me a twentieth part.'
"'What I tell you is,' said the Chevalier, 'that I never lend any of my
winnings.'
"'Quite right,' said Vertua, his face growing paler and paler, and his
looks more fixed and staring. 'Of course you can't lend. I never used
to do it myself. But give an alms to a beggar. Let him have one hundred
louis d'or out of the fortune which blind Chance threw to you tonight.'
"'Well, really, Signor Vertua, you understand how to bother,' was the
Chevalier's answer. 'I tell you that not one hundred, nor fifty, nor
twenty, nor one single louis d'or will you get out of me. I should be a
lunatic to give you any help towards recommencing your shameful trade.
Fate has dashed you down into the dust like a venomous reptile, and it
would be a crime to lift you up. Be off with you, and die, as you
deserve to do.'
"Vertua sank down, with both his hands before his face. The Chevalier
ordered his servants to take the Strong box down to the carriage, and
then cried out, in a domineering way, 'When are you going to make over
your house and effects to me, Signor Vertua?'
"Vertua raised himself from the ground, saying, in a firm voice, 'At
once. This very moment, Chevalier. Come with me.'
"'Good,' said the Chevalier, 'you may drive there with me. To-morrow
you must leave it for good and all.'
"On the way neither of them spoke. When they came to the house in the
Rue St. Honoré Vertua rang at the door, and a little old woman opened,
and cried, when she saw him, 'Oh, saviour of the world, is it you at
last, signor? Angela has been nearly dead with anxiety about you.'
"'Hush!' said Vertua. 'Heaven grant that Angela has not heard the
unlucky bell. I don't want her to know that I have come.' He took the
candle-holder from the amazed old woman's hand, and lighted the
Chevalier up the staircase to the salon.
"'I am ready for everything,' said Vertua. 'You detest me and despise
me. You ruin me for the gratification of yourself and others. But you
do not know me. I will tell you, then, that I was once a gambler like
yourself; that capricious fortune was as kind to me as to you; that I
travelled over the half of Europe, stopping wherever high play and the
expectation of large winnings attracted me to remain; that the gold in
the banque which I kept was heaped up as mountain high as in your own.
I had a devoted and beautiful wife, whom I neglected, who was miserable
in the midst of the most marvellous wealth. It happened once, in Genoa,
when I had started my banque there, that a young Roman lost all his
great fortune to me. As I begged of you to-day, he begged of me that I
would lend him as much money as would, at all events, take him to Rome.
I refused, with scornful laughter, and in his despair he thrust his
stiletto deep into my breast. The surgeons managed to cure me with
difficulty, and my illness was long and painful. My wife nursed me,
comforted me, supported me when I would have given in with the pain.
And with returning health there dawned within me, and grew stronger and
stronger, a feeling which I had never known before. The gambler is a
stranger to all the ordinary emotions of humanity, so that till then I
had no knowledge of love, and the faithful devotion of a wife. The debt
which my ungrateful heart owed to my wife burned in the depths of my
soul, as well as the sense of the wickedness of the occupation to which
I had sacrificed her. Like torturing spirits of vengeance appeared to
me all those whose happiness, whose very existence, I had ruined,
reproaching me, in hoarse and hollow voices, with the guilt and crime
of which _I_ had planted the germs. None but my wife could dispel the
nameless sorrow, the terror, which then took possession of me. I made a
solemn vow that I would never touch a card again. I tore myself away.
I burst the bonds which had held me. I withstood the enticements of
my croupiers, who could not get on when my luck was gone from the
enterprise. I had bought a small country house near Rome, and there I
fled with my wife as soon as I had recovered. Alas! for only one single
year was it that I was vouchsafed a peace, a happiness, a contentment,
such as I had never dreamt of. My wife bore me a daughter, and died a
few weeks afterwards. I was in despair. I accused heaven, and then
turned round and cursed myself and my sinful career, punished in this
way by the eternal power, by taking my wife from me, who saved me from
destruction--the only creature on earth who gave me comfort and hope.
Like the criminal whom the dreadfulness of solitude terrifies, I fled
from my country place to Paris. Angela blossomed up, the lovely
counterpart of her mother. My whole heart hung upon her. For her sake I
made it my business not only to keep a considerable fortune together,
but to increase it. It is true that I lent money at high rates of
interest. But it is a shameful calumny when I am accused of being a
fraudulent usurer. Who are my accusers? Light-minded creatures, who
torture and tease me till I lend them money, which they waste and
squander as if it were of no value, and then are furious when I get it
back from them with infallible strictness--the money which is not mine
but my daughter's, whose steward I consider myself to be. Not long ago
I rescued a young man from ruin and disgrace by lending him a
considerable sum. I knew he was very poor, and I said nothing about
repayment till I knew he had succeeded to a fortune. Then I asked him
to pay me. Would you credit it, Chevalier, this light-minded scoundrel,
who was indebted to me for his very existence, wanted to deny his
liability, and, when the law obliged him to pay me, he called me a vile
skinflint. I could tell you of plenty similar cases, which have made me
hard and unfeeling when I have been met with ingratitude and baseness.
More than that, I could tell you of many bitter tears which I have
wiped away, of many a prayer which has gone up to heaven for me and my
Angela; but you would look upon that as boasting, and besides, as you
are a gambler, you would care nothing about it. I hoped and believed
that the eternal power was appeased. All delusion, for Satan was freely
empowered to blind and deceive me in a more terrible manner than ever.
I heard of your luck, Chevalier. Every day I was told of this one and
the other having beggared himself at your banque. Then it came to me
that I was destined to pit my luck, which had never failed me, against
yours--that I was destined to put an end to your career. And this idea,
which nothing but madness of the most extraordinary kind could have
suggested to me, left me no further peace or rest. Thus I came to your
banque. Thus my terrible folly did not leave me until my fortune--no,
my Angela's fortune--was all yours. But you will let my daughter take
her clothes away with her, will you not?'
"'I have nothing to do with your daughter's clothes,' answered the
Chevalier; 'and you may take away the beds and the ordinary household
things for cooking and so forth. What do I care for rubbish of that
sort? But take care that nothing of any value of that which is now my
property goes away amongst them.'
"Old Vertua stared speechlessly at the Chevalier for a few seconds,
then a stream of tears burst from his eyes. Like a man annihilated, all
sorrow and despair, he sank down before the Chevalier with hands
uplifted.
"'Have you any human feeling left in your heart?' he cried. 'Have some
mercy! Remember it is not me whom you are dashing into ruin and misery,
but my unoffending angel child--my Angela! Oh, have mercy upon her!
Lend her the twentieth part of the fortune you have robbed her of. I
know you will allow yourself to be implored. Oh! Angela, my daughter!'
"And the old man moaned, sobbed, and called out the name of his child
in heart-breaking tones.
"'I really don't think I can stand much more of this stage business of
yours,' the Chevalier said indifferently, and in a bored manner. But
the door opened, and a girl in a white night dress, with her hair
undone, and death in her face, rushed up to old Vertua, raised
him, took him in her arms, and cried, 'Oh, father, I have heard it
all--I know it all! Have you lost everything?--everything? You have
still your Angela. What would be the use of money if you had not Angela
to take care of you. Oh, father! don't humiliate yourself more before
this despicable, inhuman creature. It is not we, it is he who is poor
and miserable in all his despicable riches, for he stands there in the
most gruesome, comfortless loneliness. There is not one loving heart in
the wide world to cling to his breast, to open to him when he is like
to despair of life--of himself. Come, father, away from this house with
me; let us go as quickly as we can, that the horrible creature may not
gloat over our sorrow.'
"Vertua sank half senseless into a chair, whilst Angela knelt down
before him, took his hands, kissed them and stroked them, and told
over, with childlike prolixity, all the accomplishments and
acquirements which she possessed, with which she would be able to
support him comfortably, imploring him with the warmest tears to have
no fear, inasmuch as life would, for the first time in her experience,
begin to possess a real value and delightsomeness for her when--not for
the enjoying of it, but for her father--she should stitch, sew, sing,
play the guitar.
"What obdurate sinner could have remained indifferent at the sight of
Angela beaming in the fulness of her heavenly beauty, comforting her
old father with sweet, delicious words, the deepest affection, and the
most childlike purity and goodness streaming from the depths of her
heart?
"Things were very different with the Chevalier. An entire pandemonium
of torture and pangs of conscience awoke within him. Angela seemed to
him to be the punishing angel of God, before whose shining glory the
cloud-shroud of sinful deception which had surrounded him vanished
away, so that with terror he clearly saw himself in all his repulsive
nakedness.
"And through the midst of those hell-flames, which were consuming and
raging in his heart, there came piercing a heavenly, pure beam of
radiance, whose light was the sweetest bliss and the very joy of
heaven, though the brightness of this ray had the effect of rendering
the inexpressible torture more terrible.
"The Chevalier had never known love before; and the instant he saw
Angela he was seized by the most passionate affection for her, and, at
the same time, with the destroying pain of complete hopelessness, for
surely there could be no hope for one who had appeared to her in the
light in which he had.
"He longed to say something, but his tongue seemed to be paralysed. At
length he so far mastered himself as to say, stammering, and in a
trembling voice, 'Signor Vertua, listen. I have not won anything from
you--nothing of the kind. There is my strong box; take it, it is yours.
Yes; and I have to pay you more than that. I am in your debt. Take it,
take it!'
"'Oh, my girl!' cried Vertua. But Angela went up to the Chevalier,
beamed a proud look upon him, and said, gravely and calmly,
'Learn, Chevalier, that there are higher things than money and
possessions--things which you have no knowledge of--which, while
filling our souls with the happiness of heaven, make us spurn your
gifts with compassion and contempt. Keep the mammon upon which lies the
curse which pursues you, heartless, accursed gambler.'
"'Yes!' cried the Chevalier wildly; 'cursed, cursed in verity may I be,
if ever this hand of mine touches a card again. And if you repel me,
Angela, it will be you who will bring inevitable destruction upon me.
Oh, you don't understand me. You must think me mad; but you will know
it all when I lie before you with my skull shivered into fragments.
Angela, it is life or death with me. Adieu!'
"With this he dashed away in utter desperation. Vertua thoroughly
understood him; he saw what had been passing in his heart, and tried to
make the lovely Angela comprehend how certain eventualities might arise
which would render it necessary to accept the Chevalier's offers.
Angela was afraid to allow herself to understand her father; she did
not think it would ever be possible to regard the Chevalier otherwise
than with contempt; but that mysterious chain of events which often
forms itself within the profundities of the human heart, without our
cognisance, brought to pass that which seemed unimagined--undreamt of.
"The Chevalier felt as if suddenly awakened from a horrible dream. He
saw himself standing on the brink of the abyss of hell, stretching his
arms out in vain to the shining form of light which had appeared to
him, not to save him, but to tell him of his damnation.
"To the surprise of all Paris his banque opened no more, and he himself
was no more seen, so that the most marvellous tales concerning him
became current, each of them a greater falsehood than the others. He
avoided all society; his love took the form of the profoundest, most
unconquerable melancholy. One day he met old Vertua and his daughter in
one of the lonely, shady walks of the garden at Malmaison.
"Angela, who had believed she would never be able to look upon the
Chevalier again but with horror and contempt, felt strangely moved when
she saw him so pale and distressed, scarce able to lift his eyes to her
in the excess of his reverence for her. She knew that, since that
eventful night, he had given play up entirely, and completely altered
his mode of life, and that she--she alone--was the cause of this. She
had saved him from destruction; could anything flatter a woman more?
"When old Vertua had exchanged the ordinary civilities with him, she
spoke to him in a tone of gentle pity, saying, 'What is the matter,
Chevalier? You look ill and unhappy. You ought to go and consult a
doctor.'
"We can understand that her words filled him with comfort and hope. He
was a different man in a moment. He lifted his head, and managed to
talk once more in the manner which, when it welled from his very heart
in former days, used to attract and endear him to all who knew him.
Vertua reminded him that he had not come to take possession of the
house he had won.
"'Very well, I will come,' he answered, with an inspiration breaking
upon him. 'I will come to-morrow; but we must discuss all the
conditions at proper length and leisure, even if it should take
months.'
"'So be it, Chevalier,' said Vertua, with a smile. 'Perhaps we may come
to discuss matters which we do not quite see into at present.'
"The Chevalier, inwardly comforted, resumed all the charm of manner and
all the delightful qualities which had distinguished him before he was
carried away by his devouring passion. His visits at Vertua's became
more and more frequent, and Angela grew more and more disposed towards
the man whose guardian angel she had been, till at last she believed
she loved him with all her heart, and promised him her hand, to the
great joy of old Vertua, who saw in this the settlement of his losses.
"One day Angela, now the happy betrothed of the Chevalier Menars, was
sitting at a window, lost in all the sweet dreams and happy fancies
which young ladies in her position are believed to be wont to
entertain, when a regiment of Jaegers came marching along, with
trumpets sounding bravely, on their way to join in the Spanish
campaign. She was looking with pitiful sympathy at the men thus going
to face death in this war, when a very young officer, who was reining
his horse quickly to one side, looked up at her, and she fell back
fainting in her seat.
"Alas! This young Jaeger, marching off to face death in the field, was
no other than young Duvernet, the son of a neighbour, with whom she had
grown up, who had been nearly daily in the house, and had only kept out
of the way since the Chevalier had made his appearance. In the look of
bitter reproach which the lad cast at her--and the bitterness of death
itself was in it--she now, for the first time, read not only how
unspeakably he loved her, but how boundlessly she loved him, without
having been aware, whilst dazzled by the Chevalier's brilliance. Now.
for the first time, she understood Duvernet's anxious sighs?--his
silent, unassuming, unobtrusive attentions; now, and now only, she read
her own embarrassed heart--what moved her disquiet breast when Duvernet
came, when she heard his voice.
"'Too late! he is lost to me!' cried the voice in her heart. She had
the resolution to beat down and conquer the hopeless pain which would
have torn her heart; and just because she had this resolution she was
successful.
"The Chevalier was too observant not to see that something had been
occurring to disturb her; but, tenderly enough, he refrained from
trying to unriddle a mystery which she thought herself bound to conceal
from him. He contented himself, by way of clearing anything hostile out
of the path, with hastening on the wedding. The arrangements connected
with it he ordered with such admirable consideration and such delicate
tact, that from his very care in this respect for her state of mind,
she could not but form a higher opinion of his amiability than even
before.
"His conduct to her was marked with such observance of the most
trifling of her wishes, with the sincere courtesy which springs from
the truest and purest affection, that the remembrance of Duvernet
naturally faded more and more from her memory. So that the first
cloud-shadow which fell upon the brightness of their life was the
illness and death of old Vertua.
"Since the night when he had lost all he possessed to the Chevalier, he
had never touched a card. But in the closing moments of his life all
his faculties seemed to be engrossed with the game. Whilst the priest,
who had come to administer the consolations of the Church to him on his
departure from this life, spoke to him of spiritual things, he lay with
closed eyes, murmuring between his teeth, '_Perd!_--_Gagne_,' and
making, with hands quivering in the spasms of death, the motions of
dealing and playing out cards. Angela and the Chevalier, bending over
him, called him by the tenderest names. He did not seem to hear them,
or to know they were there. With a faint sigh of '_Gagne!_' he gave up
the ghost.
"In her deep sorrow, Angela could not help an eery shudder at the
manner of his departure. The remembrance of that night, when she had
first seen the Chevalier as the most hardened reprobate of a gambler,
came vividly to her mind, and the thought came into her soul that he
might some day throw off his angel's mask and, jeering at her in his
pristine devilishness, begin his old life again.
"This fearful presentiment was to come but too true.
"Deeply shocked as the Chevalier was at the notion of old Francesco
Vertua's having gone into the next world heedless of the consolations
of the Church, and unable to leave off thinking of the former sinful
life, still, somehow--he could not tell why--it brought the memory of
the game back to his mind again, so that every night in his dreams he
was presiding at the banque once more, heaping up fresh treasures.
"Since, Angela, impressed by the remembrance how her husband had
appeared to her at first, found it impossible to maintain the trustful
affection of her earlier wedded days, mistrust, at the same time, came
into his soul of her, and he attributed her embarrassment to that
secret which at once disturbed her peace, and remained unrevealed to
him. This suspicion produced in him misery and annoyance, which he
expressed in utterances which pained Angela. By a natural psychical
reflex action, the remembrance of the unfortunate Duvernet revived in
her mind, and with it the miserable sense that the love which had
blossomed forth in her young heart was lost and bidden adieu to for
ever. The discord grew greater and greater, till it reached such a
pitch that the Chevalier came to the conclusion that the life of
retirement which he was leading was a complete mistake, and longed with
all his heart to be out into the world again.
"In fact, his evil star began to get into the ascendant. And that which
inward dissatisfaction commenced, was completed by a wicked fellow who
had formerly been a croupier at his banque, and who, by various crafty
speeches, brought matters to such a point that the Chevalier came to
consider his present mode of existence childish and ridiculous, and
could not comprehend how, for the sake of a woman, he should be
abandoning a life which appeared to him the only one worth living.
"So very soon the Chevalier's banque, with its heaps of gold, was going
on again more brilliantly than ever. His luck had not forsaken him;
victim after victim fell a prey, and money was amassed. But Angela's
happiness was a thing of the past--destroyed, in a terrible fashion,
like a brief, bright dream. The Chevalier treated her with
indifference--more than that, with contempt. Often she did not see him
for weeks and months. An old house-steward looked after the household
matters; the servants were changed according to the Chevalier's
caprice; so that Angela, a stranger in her own home, found no comfort
anywhere. Often, in sleepless nights, when she heard the Chevalier's
carriage draw up at the door, the heavy money-chest brought up the
stairs, and he himself come up, cursing and swearing in monosyllables,
and shut the door of his distant room with a bang, a torrent of tears
would burst from her eyes, and in the deepest, most heartbreaking tones
of misery, she would call a hundred times on the name Duvernet, and
implore the Eternal Power to make an end of her wretched existence.
"One night a young gentleman of good family, after losing all he
possessed at the Chevalier's banque, sent a bullet through his head in
the gaming-house--and indeed in the very room where the banque was
established--so that the blood and brains besprinkled the players, who
scattered out of the way in alarm. The only person unaffected by this
was the Chevalier, who, when every one was about to leave the room,
asked whether it was according to rule and custom to leave the game
because a young fool had chosen to commit an absurdity, before the
regular time for closing.
"This incident excited much comment. The most experienced, most
hardened gamblers were indignant at the Chevalier's unexampled
behaviour. Every one took part against him. The police ordered his
banque to be closed. He was accused of unfair play; and his
extraordinary luck spoke for the truth of this accusation. He was
unable to clear himself, and the fine inflicted on him ran away with a
considerable slice of his fortune. Finding himself robbed of his good
name, and despised by all, he betook himself back to the arms of the
wife whom he had ill-treated, who gladly welcomed him in his
repentance. The recollection that her father, too, had renounced the
miserable life of a gambler, allowed a gleam of hope to dawn upon her
mind that perhaps, as the Chevalier was advancing somewhat in years,
his alteration of life might be lasting.
"He left Paris with her, and they went to Genoa, her birth-place. Here,
at first, he lived a sedate life; but it was impossible to re-establish
the old, peaceful, domestic existence with Angola which his evil angel
had destroyed. Very soon his inward restlessness and disquiet awoke
and drove him out, away from his house, in unsettled restlessness. His
ill-repute had followed him from Paris. He dared not establish a
banque, though he felt impelled to do so with the most irresistible
force.
"About this time a French Colonel, obliged, by serious wounds, to
retire from active service, was keeping the most important banque in
Genoa. The Chevalier went to this banque, with envy and deep hatred in
his heart, expecting his usual luck to stand by him soon, so that he
might be the ruin of this rival. The Colonel hailed the Chevalier with
a merry humour (not at other times characteristic of him), saying that
now, when the Chevalier de Menars had appeared in the field, the game
was worth winning at last, since there was something in the nature of a
real contest to give some interest to the issues.
"And, in fact, during the first few deals, the cards fell to the
Chevalier with just his old luck. But when, trusting to his invincible
fortune, he at last called out: 'Va, Banque!' he lost a very
considerable sum of money at one stroke.
"The Colonel was, ordinarily, completely cool and impassive, whether
lucky or unlucky; but, this time, he drew in his winnings with the
liveliest marks of the utmost delight.
"From that moment luck turned away from the Chevalier, utterly and
completely. He played every night, and lost every night, till he had
nothing left but two or three thousand ducats, in paper.
"He had been on foot all day, converting this paper into cash, and only
went home to his house late in the evening. When night was coming on,
he was going out with his last gold coins in his pocket, when Angela
came to him (suspecting the truth, no doubt), threw herself at his feet
with a stream of tears, imploring him, by the Virgin and all the
saints, to abandon his evil courses, and not leave her in need and
poverty.
"The Chevalier raised her, pressed her, with painful fervour, to his
heart, and said, in a hollow voice: 'Angela!--my sweet, beloved
Angela!--there is no help for it. I must do it. I cannot help it. But
to-morrow--to-morrow, all your cares will be over. For, by the Eternal
Destiny which is above us, I swear that I play this night for the very
last time. Do not distress yourself, my darling child. Go to sleep!
Dream of happy days!--of a better life which is coming speedily. That
will bring me luck.'
"He kissed her, and ran off, not to be stopped.
"In two deals he had lost everything--all that he possessed. He
remained standing motionless near the Colonel, staring, in a dazed
manner, at the gaming table.
"'Won't you go on, Chevalier?' asked the Colonel, shuffling the cards
for the next deal.
"'I have lost my all,' the Chevalier answered, powerfully constraining
himself to be calm.
"'Do you mean to say you have nothing left?' the Colonel asked at the
next deal.
"'I am a beggar,' the Chevalier cried, in a voice quivering with fury
and pain, as he continued to stare at the gaming table. He did not
notice that those who were staking were getting more and more the
better of the banquier.
"The Colonel calmly continued the game.
"As he shuffled the cards for the third deal, he said to the Chevalier
(without looking on him), 'You have a beautiful wife, you know!'
"'What do you mean?' cried the Chevalier angrily. The Colonel turned
away a little without answering him.
"'Ten thousand ducats--or Angela!' he said, half averting his face, as
the cards were being cut.
"'You are out of your senses!' cried the Chevalier, who had, however,
now regained his composure a good deal, and began to observe that the
Colonel was losing at every deal.
"'Twenty thousand ducats, or Angela!' the Colonel said almost in a
whisper, as he paused for a moment during the shuffling of the cards.
The Chevalier said not a word. The Colonel played again, and nearly all
the cards were in favour of the players--against him.
"'Done!' the Chevalier whispered in the Colonel's ear when the next
deal began; and he threw the Queen on the table.
"The Queen lost.
"The Chevalier drew back, grinding his teeth, and leaned at the window
with despair and death in his white face.
"The game ended, and, with a jeering 'Well! what next?' the Colonel
came up to the Chevalier.
"'Oh, God!' cried the Chevalier, quite beside himself. 'You have made
me a beggar, but you must be a madman if you think you have won my
wife! Are we in the West Indies? Is my wife a slave--a chattel in her
husband's power, so that he can sell her, or gamble her away at faro?
It is true, of course, that you would have had to pay me twenty
thousand ducats if the Queen had won, so that I have lost the right to
make any objection if my wife chooses to leave me and go away with you.
Come home with me, and despair when my wife repulses with horror the
man whom she would have to follow as a dishonoured mistress.'
"'Despair yourself, Chevalier!' said the Colonel with a scornful laugh,
'when Angela turns from you with horror---from you, the miserable
wretch who has brought her to beggary--and throws herself into my arms
with eager rapture; despair yourself, when you find that the Church's
benediction unites us--that fate crowns our most eager desires. You say
I must be mad!--Ha, ha! All I wanted was to gain power of veto. I knew
of a certainty that your wife belonged to me. Ho, ho, Chevalier! Let me
tell you that your wife loves me--me--unutterably, to my certain
knowledge. Let me tell you that I am that Duvernet, the neighbour's
son, brought up with Angela, united to her in the warmest affection,
which you, with your devilish artifices, dispelled. Alas! it was not
till I had to depart on field service that Angela knew what I was to
her. I know the whole matter. It was too late then. But the dark
spirit told me that I should succeed in ruining you at play--that was
why I devoted myself to it and followed you to Genoa. And I have done
it!--come now to your wife!'
"The Chevalier stood like one annihilated, stricken by a thousand
burning lightnings. The mystery so long sealed to him was explained.
Now, for the first time, he saw the full extent of the misfortunes
which he had brought upon poor Angela.
"'My wife shall make her decision,' he said in a hollow tone, and
followed the Colonel, who stormed away.
"When they came to the house, and the Colonel seized the handle of
Angela's door, the Chevalier thrust him back, saying, 'My wife is in a
sweet sleep; would you awaken her?'
"'Ha!' said the Colonel. 'Has Angela ever been in a sweet sleep since
you brought nameless misery upon her?'
"He was about to enter the room, but the Chevalier prostrated himself
at his feet, and cried, in utter despair, 'Have some mercy! You have
made me a beggar! Leave me my wife!'
"'So lay old Vertua at _your_ feet, unfeeling monster that you were,
and could not move your stony heart. Therefore, may the vengeance of
Heaven be upon you!'
"So saying, the Colonel again turned towards Angela's room.
"The Chevalier sprang to the door, burst it open, dashed up to the bed
where his wife was lying, drew the curtains aside, cried 'Angela!
Angela!'--bent over her--took her hand--shuddered like one convulsed in
the death agony, and cried out in a terrible voice--
"'See here! What you have won from me is my wife's corpse!'
"The Colonel hurried to the bedside in terror. There was no trace of
life. Angela was dead.
"The Colonel raised his clenched hands to heaven, and rushed away with
a hollow cry. He was no more seen."
It was thus that the stranger finished his narrative, and having done
so, he went quickly away, before the Baron, much moved by it, was able
to utter any word.
A day or two afterwards the stranger was found insensible in his room,
stricken by apoplexy. He was speechless till his death, which happened
in a few hours. His papers showed that, though he was known by the name
of Baudasson, he really was none other than the unfortunate Chevalier
Menars.
The Baron recognized the warning of Heaven which had brought the
Chevalier Menars to him just when he was nearing the abyss, and he took
a solemn vow that he would resist all the temptations of the deceptive
Gambler's Fortune. Hitherto he has kept his vow.
"Would one not suppose," said Lothair, when Theodore had ended, "that
you were a man who knew all about gambling, and were great at all those
games yourself, though perhaps your conscience might now and then give
you a slap in the face? and yet I know very well that you never touch a
card."
"That is quite the case," said Theodore. "And yet I derived much
assistance, in my story, from a strange experience which I had myself
once."
"It would be the best _finale_ to your tale," said Ottmar, "to tell us
this said experience of yours."
"You know," said Theodore, "that when I was finishing my education I
lived for some time with an old uncle of mine in G----. There was a
certain friend of this uncle's who, though our ages were very
different, took a great pleasure in my society, chiefly, perhaps,
because at that time I was always filled with a brilliant vein of
humour, sometimes amounting to the mischievous. This gentleman was, I
can assure you, one of the most extraordinary characters I ever came
across. Mean in all the relationships of life, ill-tempered, grumbling,
sulky, with a great tendency to miserliness, he had the utmost
appreciation for everything in the shape of fun and amusement. To use a
French expression, he was in the highest degree _amusable_, but not in
the least _amusant_. At the same time he was excessively vain, and one
form of his vanity was that he was always dressed in the utmost
extremity of the prevailing fashion, almost to a ludicrous extent.
And there was a similar absurdity about his manner of hunting after
every species of enjoyment in the very sweat of his brow, so to
speak--striving, with a comic eagerness, to gulp down as much of it as
he possibly could grasp. I remember so well three particular instances
of this vanity and struggle for enjoyment of his that I must tell them
to you. Picture to yourselves this man, being at a place among the
hills, and invited by some people (ladies being among them), to go on a
walking expedition to see some waterfalls in the neighbourhood,
dressing himself for the occasion in a bran new silk coat, never worn
before, with beautiful shining steel buttons, and white silk stockings,
shoes with steel buckles, and his finest rings on his fingers. In the
thickest part of the pine forest which had to be passed through, a
tremendous thunderstorm came on; the rain fell in torrents, the brooks,
swollen by the rain, came rushing over the paths. You can well imagine
the state my poor friend found himself in very soon.
"It chanced that the tower of the Dominican Church at G---- was one
night struck by lightning. My friend was in raptures with the grand
fire-pillar which arose in the darkness, magically illuminating all the
country round; but he soon came to the conclusion that to get the real
picturesque effect of it in all its perfection, it would be the right
thing to go and look at it from a certain rising ground just outside
the town. So he set off as quickly as his carefulness in such matters
would permit him, not forgetting to put a packet of macaroons and a
flask of wine into certain of his pockets, or to carry a beautiful
bouquet of flowers in his hand, and a camp stool under his arm. Thus
equipped, he paced calmly out of the city gate and up on to the
eminence, where he sat himself down to enjoy the spectacle, smelling at
his bouquet, munching a macaroon, washing that down with a mouthful of
wine, in the most complete, beatific, quiescent state of enjoyment.
Really this fellow was--taking him all round----"
"Stop! stop!" cried Lothair, "you were going to tell us the adventure
of your own which helped you in writing your 'Gamester's Fortune,' and
you cannot get away from a fellow who seems to have been as ludicrous
as repulsive to every ordinarily constituted person's feelings."
"You must not blame me," said Theodore, "for lingering over this
personage who was so intimately brought into connection with my life.
But, to business!--this man whom I have been describing to you invited
me to make a trip with him to a certain watering place, and, although I
saw quite clearly that I was to play the _rôle_ of soother, calmer,
tranquilizer, and _maítre-de-plaisírs_ to him, I was quite satisfied to
make this charming excursion amongst the mountains at his expense. At
the watering-place there was some high play going on--a bank of several
thousand thalers. My companion eyed the heaps of gold with greedy
simpers, paced up and down the room, circled nearer and nearer to the
play table, dived into his pockets, brought out a Friedrich-d'or
between his finger and thumb, dropped it back again--in a word, lusted
for money. Only too glad would he have been to pocket a little haul
from that heaped-up treasure, but he had no belief in his star. At last
he put an end to this droll contest between his longings and his fears,
which brought the perspiration in drops on to his forehead, by begging
me to stake for him, to which end he put five or six Friedrichs-d'or
into my hand. However, I would have nothing to do with the arrangement
until he assured me that he had not the least belief that he would have
any luck whatever, but looked upon the sum which he staked as so much
lost cash. What happened was what I did not in the least degree expect.
To me, the unpractised, inexperienced player, fortune was propitious.
I won for my friend in a very short time something like thirty
Friedrichs-d'or, which he put in his pocket with much glee. Next
evening he wanted me to play for him again, but to this hour I cannot
explain how the idea came into my head that I should then play on my
own account. I had not had the slightest intention of playing any more,
nay, rather, I was on the very point of going away, out of the room, to
take a walk outside, when my friend came up to me with his request.
When I had plainly told him in set terms that I meant to play on my own
account (but not till then), I walked calmly up to the table and pulled
out of my little waistcoat pocket two Friedrichs-d'or, the only two
which I possessed. If fortune had been propitious to me the night
before, this time it seemed as if some Spirit of Might, at whose
command luck stood, was in covenant with me. Whatever I did, whatever I
staked upon, everything turned up in my favour---in fact, just as I
said in my story, what happened at first to Baron Siegfried happened to
me. My brain reeled! When a fresh haul of money was handed over to me I
often felt as if I were in a dream, and should be sure to wake up just
as I was pocketing my winnings. When the clock struck two the game came
to an end as usual.
"Just as I was leaving the room, an old officer took me by the
shoulder, and said, transfixing me with a grave, powerful eye:
"'Young man, if you had known what you were about, you would have
broken the banque. But if ever you do know about it, no doubt you will
go to the devil, like all the rest.' He left me, without waiting for my
answer.
"The day was breaking when I got to my room, and emptied the money out
of all my pockets on to the table. Picture to yourselves the feelings
of a mere boy, entirely dependent on his relatives, restricted to a
miserable mite of an allowance of weekly pocket-money, who suddenly, as
if at the wave of a magic wand, finds himself in possession of a sum
which is, at all events, considerable enough to appear, in his eyes, a
fortune! But, as I gazed at the heaps of coin, all my mind was suddenly
filled with an anxiety, a strange, alarmed uneasiness, which put me
into a cold perspiration. The words of the old officer came back to me,
as they had not struck me before, in the most terrible significance. I
felt as though the coin which was blinking at me there on the table was
the earnest money of a bargain whereby I had sold my soul to the powers
of darkness, so that there was no escape more for it possible, and it
was destroyed for evermore. The blossoms of my life seemed to be gnawed
upon by a hidden worm, and I sank into inconsolable despair. The
morning dawn was flaming up behind the eastern hills. I lay down in the
window-seat. I gazed, with the most intense longing, for the rising of
the sun which should drive away the darksome spirits of night; and
when the woods and plains shone forth in his golden glory, it was day
in my soul once more, and there came to me the most inspiriting sense
of a power to resist all temptation, and shield my life from that
demoniacal impulse, which was full of the power of--somehow and
somewhere--impelling it to utter destruction. I made then a most sacred
vow that I would never touch a card again, and that vow I have kept
most strictly. And the first use I made of my money was to part from my
friend, to his immense surprise, and set out on that excursion to
Dresden, Prague, and Vienna, of which I have told you."
"I can well imagine," said Sylvester, "the impression which your
unexpected, equivocal, most questionable luck must have made upon you.
It was greatly to your credit that you resisted the temptation, and
that you recognized how it was that the threatening danger lay in the
very luck itself. But, allow me to say, your own tale, the manner in
which you have, with such accuracy, characterized the real gambler in
it, must make it plain to yourself that you never had within you the
true love of gambling, and that, if you had, the courage which you
displayed would have been very difficult, perhaps impossible. Vincent,
who, I believe, knows a great deal more about such matters than the
rest of us, will agree with me here, I think."
"As for me," said Vincent, "I was scarcely attending to Theodore's
account of his luck at the faro-table, because my mind was so full of
that delicious fellow who walked about the hills in silk stockings, and
admired burning buildings as if they were so many pictures, enjoying
his wine, his macaroons, and his bouquets all the time. In fact, it was
a pleasure and satisfaction to me to see one entertaining character at
last emerging out of the dark, dreadful background of the stories of
this evening, and I should have liked to have seen him as the hero of
some comic drama."
"Ought not the mere suggestion of him to have been enough for us?"
said Lothair. "We Serapion Brethren ought always to remember that it is
our duty to set up, for each other's entertainment and refreshment,
unique characters which we may have come across in life, as a means of
refreshing us after the tales which may have strained our attention."
"A good idea," said Vincent, "and I thoroughly agree with it. Rough
sketches of that description ought to serve as studies for more
finished pictures, which whoever chooses may elaborate after his
liking. Also, they may be considered as being charitable contributions
to the general fund of Serapionish fantasy. And to show that I am in
earnest, I shall at once proceed to describe to you a very great
'Curio' of a man whom I came across in the south of Germany. One day,
in B----, I chanced to be walking in a wood near the town, when I came
upon a number of countrymen hard at work in cutting down a quantity of
thick underwood, and snipping off the branches from the trees on either
side of it. I do not know what made me inquire of them if they were
making a new road, or what. They laughed, and told me that, if I went
on my way, I should find, outside the trees, upon a little rising
ground, a little gentleman who would answer my questions, and,
accordingly, I came there upon a little elderly gentleman, of pale
complexion, in a great-coat, and with a travelling-cap on his head and
a game-bag at his back, who was gazing fixedly through a telescope in
the direction of the men who were cutting down the trees. When he saw
me he shut up his telescope in a hurry, and said, eagerly, 'You have
come through the wood, sir? Have you observed how the work is getting
on?' I told him what I had seen. 'That's right, that's right,' he said;
'I've been here ever since three in the morning, and I was beginning to
be afraid that those asses (and I pay them well, too) were leaving me
in the lurch. But I have some hopes, now, that the view will come into
sight at the expected time.' He drew out his telescope again, and gazed
through it towards the wood. After a few minutes, some large branches
came rustling down, and, as at the stroke of a magic wand, there opened
up a prospect of distant mountains, a beautiful prospect, with the
ruins of an old castle glowing in the beams of the setting sun. The
gentleman gave expression to his extreme delight and gratification in
one or two detached broken phrases; but when he had enjoyed the
prospect for a good quarter of an hour, he put away his telescope and
set off as fast as he could, without bidding me goodbye or taking the
slightest notice of me. I afterwards heard that he was the Baron von
B----, one of the most extraordinary fellows in existence, who, like
the well-known Baron Grotthus, has been on a continual walking tour for
several years, and has a mania for hunting after beautiful views. When
he arrives at a place where, to get at a view, he thinks it is
necessary to have trees cut down, or openings made in woodlands, he
spares no cost to arrange matters with the proprietors, or to employ
labourers. In fact, it is said that he once tried his utmost to have a
set of farm buildings burned down, because he thought they interfered
with the beauty of a prospect, and interrupted the view of the
distance. He did not succeed in this particular undertaking. But
whenever he did attain his object, he would gaze at his newly-arranged
view for half an hour or so, at the outside, and then set off at such a
pace that nothing could stop him, never coming back to the place
again."
The friends were of one mind in the opinion that there is no
possibility of imagining anything more marvellous or out of the common
than that which comes before us in actual life, of its own accord.
"I am wonderfully delighted," said Cyprian, "that it chances to be in
my power to add to your two oddities a third character, of whom I was
told a short time ago by a well-known violinist, whom we all of us know
very well. This third character of mine is none other than the Baron
von B----, a man who lived in Berlin about the years 1789 and 1790, and
was acknowledged to be one of the most extraordinary phenomenons ever
met with in the world of music. For the sake of greater vividness, I
will tell you the tale in the first person, as if I were the violinist
concerned in it, and I hope my worthy Serapion brother Theodore won't
take it amiss that I encroach, on this occasion, into his peculiar
province.
"At the time when the Baron was living in Berlin," the violinist said,
"I was a very young fellow, scarcely sixteen, and absorbed in the
most zealous study of my instrument, to which I was devoted with all
the powers and faculties of my body and soul. My worthy master,
Concert-Meister Haak, who was excessively strict with me, was much
content with my progress. He lauded the finish of my bowing, the
correctness of my intonation, and he allowed me to play in the
orchestra of the opera, and even in the King's chamber-concerts. On
those occasions I often heard Haak talking with young Duport, with
Ritter, and other great artists belonging to the orchestra, about the
musical evenings which Baron von B---- was in the habit of having in
his house. Such was the research and the taste connected with those
evenings that the King himself often deigned to take part in them.
Mention was made of magnificent works of the old, nearly forgotten
masters, which were nowhere else to be heard than at the Baron's, who,
as regarded music for stringed instruments, possessed, probably,
the most complete collection from the most ancient times down to
the present day, in existence. Then they spoke of the marvellous
hospitality which the Baron extended to artists, and they were all
unanimous in concluding that he was the most bright and shining star
which had ever risen in the musical horizon of Berlin.
"All this excited my curiosity, and made my teeth water; and all the
more that, during these conversations, the artists drew their heads
nearer together, and I gathered, from mysterious whispers and detached
words and phrases, that there was talk of tuition in music, of giving
of lessons. I fancied that, on Duport's face especially, there appeared
a sarcastic smile, and that they all attacked Concert-Meister Haak with
some piece of chaff, and that he, for his part, only feebly defending
himself, could scarcely suppress a smile, until at last, turning
quickly away, and taking up his violin to tune, he cried out, 'All the
same, he is a first-rate fellow!'
"All this was more than I could withstand, and although I was told, in
a pretty decided manner, to mind my own business, I begged Haak to
allow me, if in any manner possible, to go with him to the Baron's and
play in his concerts.
"Haak surveyed me with great eyes, and I feared that a little
thunderstorm was going to burst out upon me. But his seriousness melted
into a strange smile, and he said:
"'Well, well; perhaps you're right. There's a great deal to be picked
up at the Baron's. I'll talk to him about you, and I think it very
likely that he will accord you _les entrées_. He is very much
interested in young musicians.'
"A short time afterwards, I had been playing some very difficult duetts
with Haak. As he laid his fiddle down, he said, 'Now, Carl, put your
Sunday coat on to-night, and your silk stockings. We will go together
to the Baron's. There won't be many there, and it will be a good
opportunity to introduce you to him.'
"My heart throbbed with delight, for I expected to meet with things
unheard-of and extraordinary, though I did not know why this was my
expectation.
"We arrived there. The Baron, a rather small gentleman, advanced in
age, wearing an old Frankish embroidered gala dress, came to meet us as
we entered the room, and shook my master cordially by the hand. Never
had I felt, at the sight of a man of rank, more sincere reverence, a
more infelt, sincere, pleasant attraction. His face expressed the most
genuine kindliness, whilst from his eyes flashed that darksome fire
which so often indicates the artist who is, in verity, penetrated by
his art. All that diffidence with which I, as an inexperienced
neophyte, would otherwise have had to contend, fled from me instantly.
"'How are you, my dear Haak?' the Baron said. 'How are you getting on?
Have you been having a right good study at my concerto? Good, good; we
shall hear tomorrow. Oh, I suppose this is the young virtuoso you were
telling me about?'
"I cast my eyes down bashfully. I felt that I blushed over and over
again.
"Haak mentioned my name, praised my natural talent, and lauded the
rapid progress which I had made in a short time.
"'And so you have chosen the violin as your instrument,' said the
Baron. 'Have you considered, my son, that the violin is the most
difficult of all instruments ever invented, and that it is one which,
whilst it seems, in its extreme simplicity, to comprehend in itself the
most luxuriant richness of music, is, in reality, an extraordinary
mystery, which only discloses itself to a rare few, specially organized
by nature to comprehend it? Do you know of a certainty, does your
spirit tell you with distinctness, that you will be the master of that
marvellous mystery? Many a one has thought this, and has remained a
miserable bungler all his days. I should not wish, my son, that you
should swell the ranks of those wretched creatures. However, at all
events, you can play me something, and then I will tell you what you
are like, what state you are in as regards this matter, and you will
follow my counsel. Perhaps it is with you as it was with Carl Staunitz,
who thought he was going to turn out a marvellous virtuoso. When I
opened his eyes, he threw his fiddle behind the stove, and took to the
Tenor and Viol d'Amour, and a very good job he made of them. On them he
could stamp about with those broad stretching fingers of his, and play
quite fairly well. But, however, just now I want to hear _you_, my
little son.'
"This first somewhat extraordinary speech of the Baron's to me was
calculated to render me somewhat anxious and abashed. What he said went
deep into my soul, and I felt, not without inward sorrow, that in
devoting my life to the most difficult of all instruments I had,
perhaps undertaken a task beyond my powers.
"Just then, four of the artists then present sat down to play the last
three quartettes of Haydn, which had just appeared in print. My master
took his violin out of its case; but scarcely had he passed his bow
over the strings, in tuning, when the Baron, stopping his ears with
both hands, cried out, like a man possessed, 'Haak, Haak, tell me, for
God's sake! how can you annihilate all your skill in playing by making
use of a miserable screaking, caterwauling fiddle like that?'
"Now it happened that my master's violin was one of the most splendid
and glorious ever to be met with. It was a genuine Antonio Stradivari,
and nothing could enrage him more than when any one failed to render
due homage to this darling of his. However, knowing pretty well what
was going to happen, he put it back into its case with a smile.
"Just as he was taking the key out of the lock of his fiddle-case, the
Baron, who had left the room for a moment, came in, bearing in both
arms (as if it had been a babe going to be baptized) a violin-case,
covered with scarlet velvet, and bound with gold cords.
"'I wish to do you an honour, Haak,' he said; 'tonight you shall play
on my oldest, most precious violin. This is a genuine Granuelo. Your
Stradivarius, his pupil, is only a bungler in comparison with him.
Tartini would never put his fingers on any violin but a Granuelo. So
please to collect yourself, and pull yourself together, so that the
Granuelo may be pleased to allow itself to unfold all the gloriousness
which dwells within it.'
"The Baron opened the violin-case, and I beheld an instrument whose
build bore witness to its immense antiquity. Beside it lay a most
marvellous-looking bow, whose exaggerated curvature seemed to indicate
rather that it was intended for shooting arrows from than for bringing
tone out of violin strings. With solemn carefulness the Baron took the
instrument out of its case and handed it to my master, who received it
with equal solemnity.
"'I'm not going to give you the bow,' said the Baron, tapping my master
on the shoulder with a pleasant smile, 'you haven't the slightest idea
how to manage it; and that is why you will never, in all your life,
attain to a proper style of bowing.
"'This was the sort of bow,' continued the Baron, taking it from the
case, and contemplating it with a gleaming glance of inspiration,
'which the grand, immortal Tartini made use of; and now that he is
gone there are only two of his pupils left in the whole wide world who
were fortunate enough to possess themselves of the secret of his
magnificent, marrowy, toneful manner of bowing, which affects the whole
being of people, and can only be accomplished with a bow of this kind.
One of those pupils is Narbini, who is now an old man of seventy,
capable only of inward music; and the other, as I think, gentlemen, you
are aware, is myself. Consequently, I am now the sole individual in
whom the true art of violin-playing survives; and my zealous endeavours
will, I trust and believe, not fail to perpetuate that art which found
its creator in Tartini. However, let us set to work, gentlemen.'
"The Haydn quartettes were then played through, and with a degree of
perfection which, it need not be said, left nothing to be desired. The
Baron sat with closed eyes, swaying backwards and forwards;
occasionally he would get up from his chair, go closer to the players,
peer at the music with wrinkled brow, and then go very gently back to
his seat, lean his head on his hand, sigh, groan--
"'Stop, stop!' he cried suddenly at a melodious passage in one of the
adagios, 'by all the gods! that was Tartini-ish melody, or I know
nothing about it. Play it again, please.'
"And the masters, smiling, repeated the passage, with a more sostenuto
and cantabile effect of bowing, while the Baron wept and sobbed like a
child.
"When the quartettes were ended, the Baron said, 'A heavenly fellow,
this Haydn; he knows how to touch the heart; but he has not an idea of
writing for the violin. Perhaps he does not wish to do it; for if he
did, and wrote in the only true manner, as Tartini did, you would never
be able to play it.'
"It was now my turn to play some variations which Haak had written for
me.
"The Baron stood close behind me, looking at the notes. You may imagine
the agitation with which I commenced, having this severe critic at my
elbow. Presently, however, a stirring allegro movement carried me away.
I forgot all about the Baron, and managed to move about with all
freedom within the sphere of skill and power which stood then at my
command.
"When I had finished, the Baron patted me on the shoulder, and said,
'You may stick to the violin, my son; but as yet you have not an idea
of bowing or expression, probably because, up to this time, you haven't
had a proper master.'
"We then sat down to table, in another room, where there was a repast
laid out and served, which, especially as regarded the rare and
marvellous wines, was to be characterized as very extravagant. The
musicians dipped deeply into everything set before them. The talk,
which waxed more and more animated, was almost entirely on the subject
of music. The Baron emitted complete treasures of the most marvellous
information. His opinions and views, most keen and penetrating, proved
him to be not only the most instructed of connoisseurs, but also the
most accomplished, talented, and tasteful of artists. What was
specially striking to me was a sort of portrait gallery of violinists
which he went through to us in description. So much of it as I remember
I will tell you.
"'Corelli,' said the Baron, 'was the first to break out the path. His
compositions can only be played in the real Tartini manner, and that is
sufficient to prove how well he knew the true art of violin-playing.
Pugnani is a passable player. He has tone, and plenty of brains, but,
although he has a tolerable amount of appogiamento, his bowing is too
feeble altogether. What have not people told me of Geminiani! and yet,
when I heard him last, some thirty years ago in Paris, he played like a
somnambulist striding about in a dream, and one felt as if one were in
a dream one's self. It was all mere tempo rubato; no sort of style or
delivery. That infernal tempo rubato is the ruin of the very best
players; they neglect their bowing over it. I played him my sonatas; he
saw his error, and asked me to give him some lessons, which I was very
glad to do. But he was too far sunk into his old method. He had grown
too old in it--he was ninety-one. May God forgive Giardini, and not
punish him for it in eternity; but he it was who first ate the apple of
the tree of knowledge, and brought sin upon all subsequent players. He
was the first of your tremolandoists and flourishers. All he thinks
about is his left hand, and those fingers of his that have the power of
jumping hither and thither. He has no idea of the important fact that
it is in the _right_ hand that the soul of melody lies--that from every
throb of its pulses stream forth the powers that awaken the feelings of
the heart. Oh! that every one of those "flourishers" had a stout old
Jomelli at his elbow to rouse him out of his craziness by a good sound
box on the ear--as Jomelli actually did--when Giardini, in his
presence, spoilt a glorious passage of melody by jumps, trills, and
"mordenti." Lulli, too, conducts himself in a preposterous way. He is
one of your damnable perpetrators of jumps. An adagio he can't play,
and his sole quality is that for which ignoramuses, without sense or
understanding, admire him with their stupid mouths agape. I say it
again: with Narbini and me will die the true art of the violinist.
Young Viotti is a fine fellow, full of promise. He is indebted to me
for what he knows, for he was a most industrious pupil of mine. But
what does it all amount to? No endurance! No patience! He wouldn't go
on studying with me. Now, Kreutzer I still hope to get hold of and make
something of. He has availed himself assiduously of my lessons, and
will again, when I get back to Paris. That concerto of mine which you
are studying, Haak, he played not at all badly a short time since. But
he hasn't the hand, yet, to wield my bow. Giarnovichi shall never cross
my doorstep again. There's a stupid coxcomb for you! A fellow who has
the effrontery to turn up his nose at the grand Tartini--master of all
masters--and despises my lessons. What I should like to know is, what
that boy Rhode will turn out after he has had lessons from me? He
promises well, and I have an idea that he will master my bow.'
"The Baron turned to me, saying, 'He is about your age, little son, but
of a more serious, deep-thoughted nature. You appear to me--don't take
it ill if I say so--to be a little bit of a--well, I mean, you lack
purpose. However, no matter. Now you, dear Haak, I have great hopes of.
Since I have been teaching you you have become quite another man. Keep
up your unresting zeal and industry. Never waste a single hour. You
know that is what distresses me.'
"I was turned to stone with amazement and admiration at what I heard. I
could not wait the necessary time to ask the concert-meister if it was
all true---if the Baron was, really, the greatest violinist of the
day--if he, my master himself, did actually take lessons from him.
"'Undoubtedly,' Haak said, 'he had no hesitation in accepting the
profitable instruction which the Baron placed at his disposal; and he
told me that I should do well if I went, some morning, to him myself,
and asked him to let me have some lessons from him too.'
"To all the questions which I then put to him concerning the Baron and
his artistic talent, Haak would give me no direct reply, but kept on
telling me that I ought to do as he advised me, and I should then find
out all about it myself.
"The peculiar smile which passed over Haak's face as he said this did
not escape me. I did not understand the meaning of it, and it excited
my curiosity to the highest point.
"When I bashfully made my request to the Baron, assuring him that the
most unbounded zeal, the most glowing enthusiasm for my art inspired
me, he looked at me seriously and fixedly. But soon his face put on
an expression of the most benevolent kindliness. 'Little son! little
son!' he said, 'that you have betaken yourself to me--the only real
violin-player now living--proves that you possess the true artistic
spirit, and that the ideal of the genuine violin-player has come into
existence within you. I should be delighted to give you lessons; but
the time--the time! where to find it? Haak occupies me a great deal,
and then I have got this young man Durand here just now, he wants to be
heard in public, and knows that he need not try that till he has had a
good course of lessons from me. However, wait a moment, between
breakfast and lunch, or at lunch time--yes. I have still an hour at
liberty then. Little son, come to me at twelve exactly every day, and I
will fiddle with you for an hour until one; then Durand comes.'
"You can imagine how I hastened, with a throbbing heart, to the Baron's
the next forenoon at the appointed hour.
"He would not let me play a single note on my own violin, which I had
brought with me, but placed in my hands a very old instrument by
Antonio Amati. Never had I had any experience of a violin like this.
The celestial tone which streamed from its strings altogether inspired
me. I let myself go, and abandoned myself to a stream of ingenious
'passages,' suffering the river of music to surge and swell, higher and
higher, in mighty waves and billows of sound, and then die down and
expire in murmuring whispers. My own belief is that I was playing
exceedingly well; much better than I often did afterwards.
"When I had done, the Baron shook his head impatiently, and said: 'My
little son! my little son! you must forget all that. In the first
place, you hold your bow most abominably,' and he showed to me,
practically, how the bow ought to be held, according to the manner of
Tartini. I thought I should never be able to bring out a single tone
whilst so holding it; but great was my astonishment when I found that,
on repeating my 'passages' at the Baron's desire, the amazing advantage
of holding the bow as he told me to hold it was strikingly manifest,
after two or three seconds.
"'Good!' said the Baron. 'Little son, let us begin the lesson. Commence
upon the note G, above the line, and hold out that note as long as you
can possibly hold it. Economize your bow; make the very utmost of it
that you possibly can. What the breath is to the singer, the bow is to
the violinist.'
"I did as I was directed, and was greatly delighted to find that, in
this manner of dealing with matters, I was enabled to bring out a tone
of exceptional powerfulness; to swell it out to a marvellous
fortissimo, and make it die down to a very soft pianissimo, with an
excessively long stroke of the bow.
"'You see, do you not, little son?' cried the Baron. 'You can play all
kinds of "passages," jumps, and new-fangled nonsense of that sort, but
you can't properly sustain a note as it ought to be done.'
"He took the instrument from my hands, and laid the bow across the
strings, near the bridge--and the simple truth is, that words
completely fail me to describe to you what then came to pass.
"Laying that trembling bow of his close to the bridge, he went sliding
with it up and down on the strings, as it quivered in his hands,
jarringly, whistlingly, squeakingly, mewingly; the tone he produced was
to be likened to that of some old woman, with spectacles on nose,
vainly attempting to hit the tune of a hymn.
"And all the time he raised enraptured eyes to heaven, like a man
lost in the most celestial blissfulness; and when at length he left
off scraping with his bow up and down between the bridge and the
finger-board, and laid the violin down, his eyes were shining, and he
said, in deep emotion: 'That is tone! that is tone!'
"I felt in a most extraordinary condition: although the inward impulse
to laugh was present with me, it was killed by the aspect of that
venerable man, glorified by his inspiration. At the same time the whole
affair had a most eery effect upon me, and I felt very much affected by
it, and could not utter a syllable.
"'Don't you find, little son,' asked the Baron, 'that that goes to your
heart? Had you ever any idea that such magic could be conjured out of
that little thing there, with its four simple strings? Well, well! take
a glass of wine, little son.' He poured me out a glass of Madeira. I
had to drink it, and also to take some of the pastry and cakes which
were upon the table. Just then the clock struck one.
"'This will have to do for to-day,' said the Baron. 'Go, go, little
son! Here, here! put that in your pocket.'
"And he placed in my hand a little paper packet, in which I found a
beautiful, shining ducat.
"In my amazement I ran to the concert-meister and told him all that had
happened. He, however, laughed aloud, and said: 'Now you know all about
our Baron and his violin lessons. He looks upon you as a mere beginner,
so that you only get a ducat per lesson; but as the mastership, in his
opinion, increases, so does the pay. He gives me a Louis, and I think
Durand gets a couple of ducats.'
"I could not help expressing my opinion that it was anything but an
honourable style of going to work, to mystify this kind gentleman in
such a fashion, and pocket his money into the bargain.
"'You ought to be told,' said Haak, 'that his whole enjoyment consists
in giving lessons--in the way which you now comprehend; and that if I
and the other artists were to show any symptoms of under-valuing him or
his lessons, he would proclaim to the whole artistic world, in which he
is looked upon as a most competent and valuable critic, that we were
nothing but a set of wretched scrapers; that, in fact, apart from his
craze of being a marvellous player, the Baron is a man whose vast
knowledge of music, and most cultivated judgment thereon, are matters
from which even a master can derive great benefit. So judge for
yourself whether I am to be blamed if I hold on to him, and now and
then pocket a few of his Louis. I advise you to go to him as often as
you can. Don't listen to the cracky nonsense he talks about his own
execution; but do listen to, and profit by, what this man--who is most
exceptionally versed in the musical art, and has immense and valuable
experience in it--has to say about it. It will be greatly to your
advantage to do so.'
"I took his advice; but it was often hard to repress laughter when the
Baron would tap about with his fingers upon the belly of the fiddle
instead of on the finger-board, stroking his bow diagonally over the
strings the while, and asseverating that he was playing the most
beautiful of all Tartini's solos, and that he was the only person in
the world who could play it.
"But soon he would lay the violin down, and pour forth sayings which
enriched me with the profoundest knowledge, and enflamed my heart
towards the most glorious of all arts.
"If I then played something from one of his concertos with my utmost
_verve_, and happened to interpret this or the other passage of it
better than usual, the Baron would look round with a smile of
complacence, or of pride, and say: 'The boy has to thank me for that;
me, pupil of the great Tartini!'
"Thus, you perceive, I derived both profit and pleasure from the
Baron's lessons; and from his ducats into the bargain."
"Well, really," said Theodore, laughing, "I should think that the
greater part of the virtuosos of the present day--although they do
consider themselves far beyond any description of instruction or
advice--would be glad enough to have a few lessons such as the Baron
von S---- was in the habit of giving."
"I render thanks to Heaven," said Vincenz, "that this meeting of our
Club has ended so happily. I never dared to hope that it would; and I
would fain entreat my worthy Serapion Brethren to see that proper
measures are taken, in future, that there be a due alternation between
the terrifying and the entertaining, which on this occasion has by no
means been the case."
"This admonition of yours," Ottmar said, "is right and proper; but it
rested with yourself to rectify the error into which we have fallen
to-night by contributing something of your own, in your special style
of humour."
"The truth is," said Lothair, "that you, my very fine fellow--and at
the same time my very lazy-as-to-writing fellow--have never yet paid
your entrance-money into the Serapion Guild, and the only mode of
payment is a Serapiontic story."
"Hush!" cried Vincenz. "You don't know what has come glowing forth from
my heart, and is nestling in this breast-pocket of mine here; a quite
remarkable little creature of a story, which I specially commend to the
favour of our Lothair. I should have read it to you to-night. But don't
you see the landlord's pale face peeping in at the window every now and
then, just in the style in which the uncle Kuehleborn, in Fouqué's
'Undine,' used to 'keek' in at the window of the fisherman's hut.
Haven't you noticed the irritated 'Oh, Jemini!' countenance of the
waiter? Was there not written on his forehead, legibly and distinctly
(when he snuffed the candles), 'Are you going to sit here for ever? Are
you never going to let an honest man get to his well-earned bed?' Those
people are right. It is past twelve: our parting hour has struck some
time ago."
The friends agreed to have another Serapiontic meeting at an early
date, and dispersed.
SECTION VII.
The dreary late autumn had arrived, and Theodore was sitting in his
room beside the crackling fire, waiting for the worthy Serapion
Brethren, who came dropping in, one by one, at the appointed hour.
"What diabolical weather!" cried Cyprian, entering the last. "In spite
of my cloak I am nearly wet through, and a gust of wind all but carried
away my hat."
"And it won't be better very soon," said Ottmar; "for our
meteorologist, who lives in the same street with me, has prognosticated
very fine weather at the end of this autumn."
"Right; you are perfectly right, my friend Ottmar," Vincenz said.
"Whenever our great prophet consoles his neighbours with the
announcement that the winter is not going to be at all severe, but
principally of a southerly character, everybody rushes away in alarm,
and buys all the wood he can cram into his cellar. The weather-prophet
is a wise and highly-gifted man, whom we can thoroughly trust, so long
as we expect the exact reverse of what he predicts."
"Those autumnal storms always make me thoroughly wretched," said
Sylvester; "I always feel depressed and ill whilst they are going on;
and I think you feel the same, Theodore."
"Oh, indeed I do," answered Theodore; "this sort of weather always
makes----"
"Splendid!--delightful beginning of a meeting of the Serapion Club!"
intercalated Lothair. "We set to work to discuss the weather, like a
parcel of old women round the coffee-table."
"I don't see," said Ottmar, "why we should not talk about the weather;
the only reason you can object to it is that talking about it seems to
be an observance of a kind of rather slovenly old custom, which has
resulted from a necessity to say something or other when there happens
to be nothing else in people's minds to talk about. What I think is
that a few words about the weather and the wind make a very good
beginning of a conversation, whatsoever its nature may turn out to be,
and that the very universality of the applicability of this as the
beginning of a conversation prove how natural it really is."
"As far as I am concerned," said Theodore, "I don't think it matters
a farthing how a conversation commences. But there is one thing
certain--that, if one wants to make some very striking and clever
beginning, that is enough to kill all the freedom and unconstraint
which may be termed the very soul of conversation. I know a young
man--I think he is known to you all, as well--who is by no means
deficient in that mobility of intellect which is absolutely necessary
for good conversation; but he is so tormented, particularly when ladies
are present, by that kind of eagerness to burst out with something
brilliant and striking at the very outset of a talk, that he walks
restlessly about the room; makes the most extraordinary faces in the
keenness of his inward torment; opens his lips, and--cannot manage to
utter a syllable."
"Cease, cease, base wretch!" Cyprian cried, with comic pathos, "do not,
with murderous hand, tear open wounds which are barely healed. He is
speaking of me," he continued, laughing, "and he doesn't know that, a
few weeks ago, when I insisted on restraining that tendency of mine,
which I see the absurdity of, and falling into a conversation in the
ordinary style of other people, I had to pay for it by complete
annihilation. I prefer telling you all about this myself to letting
Ottmar do it, and add witty comments of his own. At a tea-party where
Ottmar and I were, there was present a certain pretty and clever lady,
as to whom you are in the habit of maintaining that she interests me
more than is right and proper. I went to talk to her, and I admit that
I was a little at a loss how exactly to begin, and she was wicked
enough to gaze at me with questioning eyes. I burst out with 'The new
moon has brought a nice change of weather.' She answered, very quietly:
'Oh, are you writing the Almanac this season?'"
The friends laughed heartily.
"On the other hand," said Ottmar, "I know another young man--and you
all know him--who, particularly with ladies, is never at a loss for the
first word of a talk; in fact, my belief is that he has severely
thought out, in private, a regular system, of the most comprehensive
kind, as to conversation with ladies, which is by no means likely ever
to find him left in the lurch. For instance, one of his dodges is to go
to the prettiest--one who scarce ventures to dip a sweet biscuit in her
tea; who, at the utmost, whispers into the ear of her who is sitting
next to her: 'It is very warm, dear;' to which the latter answers with
equal softness into her ear: 'Dreadfully, my love;' whose communication
goeth not beyond 'Yea, yea,' and 'Nay, nay,'--to go up to such an one,
I say, and, in an artful manner, startle her out of her wits, and
thereby so utterly revolutionize her very being, in such a sudden
manner, that she seems to herself to be no longer the same person:
'Good heavens! how very pale you are looking!' he cried out, recently,
to a pretty creature, as silent as a church, just in the act of
beginning a stitch of silver thread at a purse which she was working.
The young lady let her work fall on her lap in terror, said she was
feeling a little feverish that day. Feverish!--my friend was thoroughly
at home on that subject; could talk upon it in the most interesting
way, like a man who knows his ground; inquired minutely into all the
symptoms; gave advice, gave warnings,--and behold! there was a
delightful, interesting, confidential conversation spun out in a few
minutes."
"I am much obliged to you," said Theodore, "for having so carefully
observed that talent of mine, and given it its due meed of approval."
The friends laughed again at this.
"There is no doubt," said Sylvester, "that society talk is, altogether,
a rather curious thing. The French say that a certain heaviness in our
nature always prevents us from hitting the precise tact and tone
necessary for it; and they may be right, to a certain extent, but I
must declare that the much-belauded _légèreté_ and lightsomeness of
French Society puts me out of temper, and makes me feel stupid and
uncomfortable, and that I cannot look upon those _bon mots_ and
_calembours_ of theirs, which are continually being fired off in all
directions, as coming under the class of that 'Society wit' which gives
out constantly fresh sparks of new life of conversation. Moreover, that
peculiar style of wit to which the genuine French 'wit' belongs is, to
me, in the highest degree disagreeable."
"That opinion," said Cyprian, "comes from the very depths of your
quiet, friendly spirit, my dearest Sylvester: but you are forgetting
that, besides the (generally utterly empty and insipid) _bon mots_, the
'Society wit' of the French is, in a great degree, founded on a mutual
contempt of, and jeering and scoffing at, each other (such as at the
present time we call 'chaff,' although it is less good-humoured than
that), which soon passes the bounds of what we consider courtesy and
consideration, and consequently would speedily deprive our intercourse
of all pleasure. Then the French have not the very slightest
comprehension of that wit whose basis is real humour, and it is almost
incomprehensible how often the point of some not very profound, but
superficially funny, little story escapes them."
"Don't forget," said Ottmar, "that the point of a story is very often
completely untranslatable."
"Or is badly translated," said Vincenz. "It so happens that I just
think of a very amusing thing which happened quite recently, and which
I will tell you, if you care to hear it."
"Tell us, tell us! delightful fabulist! valued anecdotist!" cried the
friends.
"A young man," related Vincenz, "whom nature had endowed with a
splendid bass voice, and who had gone upon the operatic stage, was
making his first appearance as Sarastro, in the 'Magic Flute.' As he
was mounting the car, in which he first comes on, he was seized with
such a terrible attack of stage-fright that he trembled and shook--nay,
when the car got into motion to come forward, he shrunk into himself,
and all the manager's efforts to induce him to reassure himself, and,
at all events, stand upright, were useless. Just then it happened that
one of the wheels got entangled in the long mantle which Sarastro
wears, so that the further he got on to the stage, the more this mantle
dragged him backwards; whilst he, struggling against this, and keeping
his feet firm, appeared in the centre of the stage with the nether
portion of his body projecting forwards, and his head and shoulders
held tremendously far back. The audience were immensely pleased at this
most regal attitude and appearance of the inexperienced neophyte, and
the manager offered him, and concluded with him, an engagement on very
liberal terms. Now, this simple little story was being told, lately, in
a company where there was a French lady who did not understand a word
of German. When everybody laughed, at the end of the story, she wanted
to know what the laughter was about, and our worthy D. (who, when he
speaks French, gives a most admirable, and very close, imitation of the
tones and actions of French people, but is continually at a loss for
the words) undertook to translate the story to her. When he came to the
wheel which had got entangled with Sarastro's cloak, constraining him
to his regal attitude, he called it 'Le rat,' instead of 'La roue.' The
French lady's brow clouded, her eyebrows drew together, and in her face
was plainly to be read the terror which the story had produced in her,
whereto conduced the circumstance that D. had 'let on' upon his face
the full power of tragi-comic muscular play which it was capable of.
When, at the end, we all laughed more than before at this amusing
misunderstanding (which we all took good care not to explain), she
murmured to herself, 'Ah! les barbares!' The good lady not unnaturally
looked upon us as barbarians for thinking it so amusing that an
abominable rat should have frightened the poor young man almost to
death, at the very commencement of his stage-career, by holding on to
his cloak."
When the friends had done laughing, Vincenz said: "Suppose we now bid
adieu to the subject of French conversation, with all its _bon mots_,
_calembours_, and other ingredients, and come to the conclusion that it
really is an immense pleasure when, amongst intellectual Germans, a
conversation, inspired by their humour, rushes up skyward like a
coruscating firework, in a thousand hissing light-balls, crackling
serpents, and lightning-like rockets."
"But it must be remembered," said Theodore, "that this pleasure is
possible only when the friends in question, besides being intellectual
and endowed with humour, possess the talent not only of talking, but of
listening, the principal ingredient of real conversation."
"Of course," said Lothair; "those people who constitute themselves
'spokesmen' destroy all conversation--and so, in a lesser degree,
do the 'witty' folk, who go from one company to another with
anecdotes, crammed full of all sorts of shallow sayings; a kind of
self-constituted 'Society clowns.' I knew a man who, being clever and
witty, and at the same time a terribly talkative fellow, was invited
everywhere to amuse the company; so that, the moment he came into a
room, everybody looked in his face, waiting till he came out with
something witty. The wretch was compelled to put himself to the
torture, in order to fulfil the expectations entertained of him as
well as he could, so that he could not avoid soon becoming flat and
commonplace; and then he was thrown aside by every one, like a used-up
utensil. He now creeps about, spiritless and sad, and seems to be like
that dandy in Abener's 'Dream of Departed Souls,' who, brilliant as he
was in this life, is sorrowful and valueless in the other, because, on
his sudden and unexpected departure, he left behind him his snuff-box
of Spanish snuff, which was an integral part of him."
"Then, too," said Ottmar, "there are certain extraordinary people
who, when entertaining company, keep up an unceasing stream of
talk; not from conceit in themselves, but from a strange, mistaken
well-meaningness, for fear that people shouldn't be enjoying
themselves; and keep asking if people are not 'finding it dull,' and so
forth, thereby nipping every description of enjoyment in the bud in a
moment."'
"That is the very surest way to weary people," said Theodore, "and I
once saw it employed with the most brilliant success by my old
humourist of an uncle, who, I think, from what I have told you of him,
you know pretty intimately by this time. An old schoolfellow of his had
turned up--a man who was utterly tedious and unendurably wearisome in
all his works and ways--and he came to my uncle's house every forenoon,
disturbed him at his work, worried him to death, and then sat down to
dinner without being invited. My uncle was grumpy, snappish, silent,
giving his visitor most unmistakably to understand that his calls were
anything but a pleasure to him; but it was all of no use. Once, when
the old gentleman was complaining to me (in strong enough language, as
his manner was) on the subject of this schoolfellow, I said I thought
he should simply show him the door and have done with it. 'That
wouldn't do, boy,' said my uncle, puckering his face into a rather
pleased smile. 'You see, he is an old schoolfellow of mine, after all;
but there is another way of getting rid of him which I shall try; and
that will do it.' I was not a little surprised when, the next morning,
my uncle received the schoolfellow with open arms and talked to him
unceasingly, saying how delighted he was to see him, and go back
over the old days with him. All the old school-day stories which
the schoolfellow was incessantly in the habit of repeating, and
re-repeating, till they became intolerable to listen to, now poured
from my uncle's lips in a resistless cataract, no that the visitor
could not escape them. And all the while my uncle kept asking him,
'What is the matter with you to-day? You don't seem happy. You are so
monosyllabic. Do be jolly! Let us have a regular feast of old stories
to-day.' But the moment the schoolfellow opened his lips to speak my
uncle would cut him short with some interminable tale. At last the
affair became so unendurable to him that he wanted to cut and run. But
my uncle so pressed him to stay to lunch and dinner, that, unable to
resist the temptation of the good dishes, and better wine, he did stay.
But scarce had he swallowed a mouthful of soup when my uncle, in
extreme indignation, cried, 'What in the devil's name is this infernal
mess? Don't touch any more of it, brother, I beg you; there's something
better to come. Take those plates away, John!' Like a flash of
lightning the plate was swept away from under the school-friend's nose.
It was the same thing with all the dishes and courses, though they were
of a nature sufficiently to excite the appetite, till the 'something
better to come' resolved itself into Cheshire cheese, which of all
cheeses the school-friend hated the most, although he disliked all
cheese. From an apparently ardent endeavour to set before him an
unusually good dinner he had not been suffered to swallow two
mouthfuls; and it was much the same with the wine. Scarce had he put a
glass to his lips when my uncle cried, 'Old fellow, you're making a wry
face. Quite right, that isn't wine, it's vinegar. John, a better tap!'
And one kind after another came, French wines, Rhine wines, and still
the cry was, 'You don't care about that wine,' &c., till, when the
Cheshire cheese put the finishing stroke on things, the school-friend
jumped up from his chair in a fury. 'Dear old friend!' said my uncle
in the kindliest of tones, 'you are not at all like your usual self.
Come, as we are together here, let us crack a bottle of the real old
"care-killer."' The school-friend plumped into his chair again. The
hundred years' old Rhine wine pearled glorious and clear in the two
glasses which my uncle filled to the brim. 'The devil,' he cried, holding
his glass to the light, 'this wine has got muddy, on my hands. Don't
you see? No, no; I can't set that before anybody,' and he swallowed
the contents of both glasses himself, with evident delight. The
school-friend popped up again, and plumped into his chair once more on
my uncle's crying, 'John, Tokay!' The Tokay was brought, my uncle poured
it out, and handed the schoolfellow a glass, saying, 'There, my boy,
you shall be satisfied at last, in good earnest. That is nectar!' But
scarce had the school-friend set the glass to his lips when my uncle
cried, 'Thunder! there's been a cockroach at this bottle.' At this the
school-friend, in utter fury, dashed the glass into a thousand pieces
against the wall, ran out of the house like one possessed, and never
showed his face across the threshold again."
"With all respect for your uncle's grim humour," said Sylvester, "I
think there was rather a systematic perseverance in the course of
mystification involved in such a process of getting rid of a
troublesome person. I should have much preferred to show him the door
and have done with it; though I admit that it was quite according to
your uncle's peculiar vein of humour to prearrange a theatrical scene
of this sort in place of the perhaps troublesome and unpleasant
consequences which might have arisen if he had kicked him out. I can
vividly picture to myself the old parasite as he suffered the torments
of Tantalus, as your uncle kept continually awakening fresh hopes in
his mind and instantly dashing them to the ground; and how, at last,
utter desperation took possession of him."
"You can introduce the scene into your next comedy," said Theodore.
"It reminds me," said Vincenz, "of that delightful meal in
Katzenberger's _Badereise_, and of the poor exciseman who has almost to
choke himself with the bites of food which are slid to him over the
'Trumpeter's muscle,' the Buccinator, although that scene would not be
of much service to Sylvester for a new piece."
"The great Kazenberger," said Theodore, "whom women do not like on
account of the robustness of his cynicism, I formerly knew very well.
He was intimate with my uncle, and I could, at some future time, tell
you many delightful things concerning him."
Cyprian had been sitting in profound thought, and seemed to have been
scarcely attending to what the others had been saying. Theodore tried
to arouse his attention and direct it to the hot punch which he had
brewed as the best corrective of the evil influence of the weather.
"Beyond a doubt," said Cyprian, "this is the germ of insanity, if it is
not actually insanity itself."
The friends looked questionably at each other.
"Ha!" cried Cyprian, getting up from his chair and looking round him
with a smile, "I find I have spoken out, aloud, the conclusion of the
mental process which has been going on within me in silence. After I
have emptied this glass of punch and duly lauded Theodore's art of
preparing that liquid after its mystic proportions, and due relations
of the hot, strong and sweet, I will simply point out that there is a
certain amount of insanity, a certain dose of crackiness, so deeply
rooted in human nature, that there is no better mode of getting at the
knowledge of it than by carefully studying it in those madmen and
eccentrics whom we by no means have to go to madhouses to come across,
but whom we may meet with every hour of the day in our daily course;
and, in fact, best of all in the study of our own selves, in each of
whom these is present a sufficient quantum of that 'precipitate
resulting from the chemical process of life.'"
"What has brought you back to the subject of insanity and the insane?"
asked Lothair, in a tone of vexation.
"Do not lose your temper, dear Lothair," said Cyprian, "we were talking
on the subject of society conversation; and then I thought of two
mutually antagonistic classes of characters which are often fatal to
social talking. There are people who find it impossible to get away
from ideas which have come to occupy their minds; who go on repeating
the same things over and over again, for hours, no matter what turn the
conversation may have taken. All efforts to carry them along with the
stream of the conversation are vain; when one at last flatters oneself
that one has got them into the current of the talk, lo and behold, they
return _à leurs moutons_ again, just as before, and consequently dam up
the beautiful, rushing stream of conversation. In contradistinction to
them are those who forget one second what they said in the immediately
preceding one; who ask a question, and, without waiting for an answer,
introduce something completely irrelevant and heterogeneous; to whom
everything suggests everything else, and consequently nothing which has
any connection with the subject of the talk--who, in a few words, throw
together a many-tinted lumber of ideas in which nothing that can be
called distinct is discoverable. Those latter destroy everything like
agreeable conversation and drive us to a state of despair, and the
former produce intolerable tedium and annoyance. But, don't you think
there lies in those people the germ of real insanity in the one
case, and in the other of _folie_, whose character is very much,
if not exactly, what the psychological doctors term 'looseness' or
'incoherence' of ideas?"
"There is no doubt," said Theodore, "that I should like to say a great
deal concerning the art of _relating_ in society, for there is much
which is mysterious about it, depending, as it does, on place, time,
and individual relationships, and difficult to be ranged under special
heads. But it seems to me that this matter might carry us too far, and
be opposed to the real tendency of the Serapion Club."
"Most certainly," said Lothair. "We want to tranquillise ourselves with
the thought that we--neither madmen nor fools--are, on the contrary,
the most delightful companions to each other; who not only can talk,
but can listen; more than that, each of us can listen quite patiently
when another reads aloud, and that is saying a good deal. Friend Ottmar
told me a day or two ago that he had written a story in which the
celebrated poet-painter Salvator Rosa played a leading part. I hope he
will read it to us now."
"I am a little afraid," said Ottmar, as he took the manuscript from his
pocket, "that you won't think my story Serapiontic. I had it in mind to
imitate that ease and genial liberty of breadth which predominates in
the 'Novelli' of the old Italians, particularly of Boccaccio; and over
this endeavour I acknowledge that I have grown prolix. Also you will
say, with justice, that it is only here and there that I have hit upon
the true 'Novella' tone--perhaps only in the headings of the chapters.
After this noble and candid confession I am sure you will not deal too
hardly with me, but think chiefly of anything which you may find
entertaining and lively."
"What prefaces!" cried Lothair. "An unnecessary _Capitatio
Benevolentiae_; read us your Novella, my good friend Ottmar, and
if you succeed in vividly portraying to us your Salvator Rosa
in verisimilitude before our eyes, we will recognise you as a
true Serapion brother, and leave everything else to the grumbling,
fault-finding critics. Shall it not be so, my eminent Serapion
Brethren?"
The friends acquiesced, and Ottmar began.
SIGNOR FORMICA.
_A NOVELLA._
The renowned painter, Salvator Rosa, comes to Rome, and is attacked by
a dangerous malady.--What happened to him during this malady.
People of renown generally have much evil spoken of them, whether
truthfully or otherwise, and this was the case with the doughty painter
Salvator Rosa, whose vivid, living pictures you, dear reader, have
certainly never looked upon without a most special and heartfelt
enjoyment.
When his fame had pervaded and resounded through Rome, Naples, Tuscany,
nay, all Italy; when other painters, if they would please, were obliged
to imitate his peculiar style--just then, malignant men, envious of
him, invented all sorts of wicked reports concerning him, with
the view of casting foul spots of shadow upon the shining auriole
of his artistic fame. Salvator, they said, had, at an earlier
time of his life, belonged to a band of robbers, and it was to his
experiences at that time that he was indebted for all the wild, gloomy,
strangely-attired figures which he introduced into his pictures, just
as he copied into his landscape those darksome deserts, compounded of
lonesomeness, mystery, and terror--the _Selve Selvagge_ of Dante--where
he had been driven to lurk. The worst accusation brought against him
was that he had been involved in that terrible, bloody conspiracy which
"Mas' Aniello" of evil fame had set afoot in Naples. People told all
about that, with the minutest details.
Aniello Falcone, the battle-painter (as he was called), blazed up in
fury and bloodthirsty revenge when the Spanish soldiers killed one of
his relations in a skirmish. On the spot he collected together a crowd
of desperate and foolhardy young men, principally painters, provided
them with arms, and styled them "the death-company"; and, in verity,
this band spread abroad a full measure of the terror and alarm which
its name indicated. Those young men pervaded Naples, in troop form, all
day long, killing every Spaniard they came across. More than this, they
stormed their way into all the sacred places of sanctuary, and there,
without compunction, murdered their wretched enemies who had taken
refuge there, driven by fear of death. At night they betook themselves
to their chief, the mad, bloodthirsty Mas' Aniello, and they painted
pictures of him by torchlight, so that in a short time hundreds of
those pictures of him were spread about Naples and the surrounding
neighbourhood.
Now it was said that Salvator Rosa had been a member of this band,
robbing and murdering all day, but painting with equal assiduity all
night. What a celebrated art-critic--Taillasson, I think--said of our
master is true: "His works bear the impress of a wild haughtiness and
arrogance, of a bizarre energy, of the ideas and of their execution.
Nature displays herself to him not in the lovely peacefulness of green
meadows, flowery fields, perfumed groves, murmuring streams, but in the
awfulness of mighty up-towering cliffs, or sea-coasts, and wild,
inhospitable forests; the voice to which he listens is not the
whispering of the evening breeze, or the rustling of the leaves, but
the roar of the hurricane, the thunder of the cataract. When we look at
his deserts and the people of strange, wild appearance, who, sometimes
singly, sometimes in troops, prowl about them, the weirdest fancies
come to us of their own accord. Here there happened a terrible murder,
there the bleeding corpse was thrown hurriedly over the cliff, &c.,
&c."
Now this may all be the case, and although Taillasson may not be far
wrong when he says that Salvator's "Plato," and even his "St. John in
the Wilderness announcing the Birth of the Saviour," look just the
least little bit like brigands, still it is unfair to base any
conclusions drawn from the works upon the painter himself, and to
suppose that, though he represents the wild and the terrible in such
perfection, he must have been a wild and terrible person himself. He
who talks most of the sword often wields it the worst; he who so feels
in his heart the terror of bloody deeds that he is able to call them
into existence with palette, pencil or pen, may be the least capable of
practising them. Enough! of all the wicked calumnies which would
represent the doughty Salvator to have been a remorseless robber and
murderer, I do not believe a single word, and I hope you, dear reader,
maybe of the same opinion, or I should have to cherish a certain amount
of doubt whether you would quite believe what I am going to tell you
about him.
For--as I hope--my Salvator will appear to you as a man burning and
coruscating with life and fire, but also endowed with the most charming
and delightful nature, and often capable of controlling that bitter
irony which--in him, as in all men of depth of character--takes form of
itself from observation of life. Moreover, it is known that Salvator
was as good a poet and musician as a painter, his inward genius
displaying itself in rays thrown in various directions. I repeat that I
have no belief in his having had anything to do with the crimes of Mas'
Aniello; I rather hold to the opinion that he was driven from Naples to
Rome by the terror of the time, and arrived there as a fugitive at the
very time of Mas' Aniello's fall.
There was nothing very remarkable about his dress, and, with a little
purse containing a few zecchini in his pocket, he slipped in at the
gate just as night was falling. Without exactly knowing how, he came to
the Piazza Navoni, where, in happier days, he had formerly lived in a
fine house close to the Palazzo Pamphili. Looking up at the great
shining windows, glittering and sparkling in the moonbeams, he cried,
with some humour, "Ha! it will cost many a canvass ere I can establish
my studio there again." Just as he said so he suddenly felt as if
paralysed in all his limbs, and, at the same time, feeble and powerless
in a manner which he had never before experienced in all his life. As
he sank down on the stone steps of the portico of the house he murmured
between his teeth, "Shall I ever want canvasses? It seems to me that
_I_ have done with them."
A cold, cutting night-wind was blowing through the streets; Salvator
felt he must try and get a shelter. He rose with difficulty, tottered
painfully forward, reached the Corso, and turned into Strada
Vergognona. There he stopped before a small house, only two windows
wide, where lived a widow with two daughters. They had taken him as a
lodger for a small sum when first he came to Rome, known and cared for
by nobody, and he hoped he would find a lodging with them now suited to
his reduced circumstances.
He knocked familiarly at the door, and called his name in at it time
after time. At last he heard the old woman rousing herself with
difficulty from sleep. She came, dragging along her slippers, to the
window, scolding violently at the scoundrel who was disturbing her in
the middle of the night--her house not being an inn, &c. Then it took a
deal of up and down talking ere she recognised her former lodger by his
voice; and on Salvator's complaining that he had been obliged to flee
from Naples and could find no roof to cover him in Rome, she cried out,
"Ah! Christ and all the saints! Is it you, Signor Salvator? Your room
upstairs, looking upon the courtyard, is empty still, and the old
fig-tree has stretched its leaves and branches right into the window,
so that you can sit and work as if you were in a beautiful cool arbour.
Ah! how delighted my girls will be that you are here again, Signor
Salvator. But I must tell you Margerita has grown a big girl, and a
very _pretty_ girl--it won't do to take her on your knee now! Your cat,
only fancy, died three months ago--a fish bone stuck in its throat.
Aye, aye, poor thing! the grave is the common lot. And what do you
think? Our fat neighbour woman--she whom you so often laughed at and
drew the funny caricatures of--she has gone and got married to that
young lad, Signor Luigi. Well, well! _Nozze e magistrati sono da dio
destinati!_ Marriages are made in heaven, they say."
"But, Signora Caterina," interrupted Salvator, "I implore you by all
the saints let me in to begin with, and then tell all about your
fig-tree, your daughters, the kitten, and the fat woman. I am dying of
cold and weariness."
"Now, just see how impatient he is!" cried the old woman. "_Chi va
piano va sano; chi va presto muore lesto._ The more haste the less
speed, is what I always say. But you're tired, you're shivering; so
quick with the key, quick with the key."
Before getting hold of the key, however, she had to awaken her
daughters, and then slowly, slowly strike a light. Ultimately she
opened the door to the exhausted Salvator; but as soon as he crossed
the threshold he fell down like a dead man, overcome by exhaustion and
illness. Fortunately the widow's son, who lived at Tivoli, happened to
have just come home, and he was at once turned out of his bed, which he
willingly gave up to this sick family friend.
The old lady had a great fondness for Salvator, rated him, as regarded
his art, above all the painters in the world, and had the utmost
delight in everything he did. Therefore she was much distressed at his
deplorable condition, and wanted to run off at once to the neighbouring
monastery and bring her own Father Confessor, that he might do battle
with the powers of evil at once, with consecrated tapers, or some
powerful amulet or other. But the son thought it would be better almost
to send for a good doctor, and he set off on the instant to the Piazza
di Spagna, where he knew the celebrated doctor, Splendiano Accoramboni,
lived. As soon as he heard that the great painter Salvator Rosa was
lying sick in Strada Vergognona, he prepared to pay him a professional
visit. Salvator was lying unconscious in the most violent fever. The
old woman had hung up one or two images of saints over his bed, and was
praying fervently. The daughters, bathed in tears, were trying to
get him now and then to swallow a few drops of the cooling lemonade
which they had made, whilst the son, who had taken his station at the
bed-head, wiped the cold perspiration from his brow. In these
circumstances the morning had come, when the door opened with much
noise, and the celebrated doctor, Signor Splendiano Accoramboni,
entered.
If it had not been for the great heart-sorrow over Salvator's mortal
sickness, the two girls, petulant and merry as they were, would have
laughed loud and long at the doctor's marvellous appearance. As it was,
they drew away into corners, frightened and shy. It is worth while to
describe the aspect of this extraordinary little fellow as he came into
Dame Caterina's in the grey of the morning. Although he had,
apparently, given early promise of reaching a most distinguished
stature, Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni had not managed to get beyond
the altitude of four feet. At the same time he had, in his early years,
been of most delicate formation as regarded his members--and, before
the head (which had always been somewhat shapeless) had acquired too
much increment of matter in the shape of his fat cheeks and his
stately double chin--ere the nose had assumed too much of a lateral
development, in consequence of being stuffed with Spanish snuff--ere
the stomach had assumed too great a rotundity by dint of maccaroni
fodder--the dress of an Abbate, which he had worn in those early days,
became him very well. He had a right to be styled a nice little fellow,
and the Roman ladies accordingly did speak of him as their _caro
puppazetto_.
But now those days were over, and a German painter, who saw him
crossing the Piazza di Spagna, said of him, not without reason, that he
looked as if some stalwart fellow of six feet high had run away from
his own head and it had fallen on to the shoulders of a little
marionette Pulcinello, who had now to go about with it as his own. This
strange little figure had thrust itself into a great mass of Venetian
damask, all over great flowers, made into a dressing-gown, and girt
itself about, right under the breast, with a broad leather girdle, in
which was stuck a rapier three ells long; and above his snow-white
periwig there clung a high-peaked head-dress, not much unlike the
obelisk in the Piazza San Pietro. As the periwig went meandering like a
tangled web, thick and broad, over his back and shoulders, it might
well have been taken for the cocoon out of which the beautiful insect
had issued.
The worthy Splendiano Accoramboni glared through his spectacles, first
at the sick Salvator, and then on Dame Caterina, whom he drew to one
side. "There," he said, in a scarce audible whisper, "lies the great
painter Salvator Rosa sick unto death in your house, Dame Caterina, and
nothing but my skill can save him! Tell me, though, how long it is
since he came to you? Has he plenty of grand, beautiful pictures with
him?"
"Ah! dear Signor Dottore," answered the old woman, "this dear boy of
mine only came to-night, and, as concerns the pictures, I know nothing
about them as yet. But there's a large box downstairs, which he told
me, before he got to be unconscious as he is now, to take the greatest
care of. I should suppose there is a grand picture in it which he has
painted in Naples."
Now this was a fib which Dame Caterina told; but we shall soon see what
good reason she had for telling it to the doctor.
"Ah, ah! Yes, yes!" said the doctor, stroking his beard. Then he
solemnly strode up as close to the patient as his long rapier, which
banged against and entangled itself with the chairs and tables,
admitted of his doing, took his hand and felt his pulse, sighing and
groaning as he did so in a manner which sounded wonderful enough in the
deep silence of reverential awe which prevailed. He then named a
hundred and twenty diseases, in Latin and Greek, which Salvator
had not, then about the same number which he might possibly have
contracted, and ended by saying that although he could not just at that
moment exactly name the malady which Salvator was suffering from, he
would hit upon a name for it in a short time, and also the proper
remedies and treatment for its cure. He then took his departure with
the same amount of solemnity with which he had entered, leaving all
hands in the due condition of anxiety and alarm. He asked to see
Salvator's box downstairs, and Dame Caterina showed him a box, in which
were some old clothes of her deceased husband's, and some old boots and
shoes. He tapped the box with his hand here and there, saying, with a
smile, "We shall see! We shall see!" In an hour or two he came back
with a very grand name for what was the matter with Salvator, and
several large bottles of a potion with an evil smell, which he directed
that the patient should keep on swallowing. That was not such an easy
matter, for the patient resisted with might and main, and expressed, as
well as he could, his utter abhorrence of this stuff, which seemed to
be a brew from the very pit of Acheron. But whether it was that the
malady, now that it had got a name, exerted itself more powerfully, or
that Splendiano and medicine were working too energetically--enough,
with every day and nearly every hour, one might say, Salvator grew
weaker and weaker, so that, although Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni
asseverated that, the processes of life having come to a complete
standstill, he had given the machine an impetus towards renewed
activity (as if it had been the pendulum of a clock), all the
by-standers doubted of Salvator's recovery, and were disposed to think
that the Signor Dottore might, perhaps, have given the pendulum such a
rough impulse that it was put out of gear.
But one day it happened that Salvator, who seemed scarcely able to move
a muscle, suddenly got into a paroxysm of tremendous fever, and,
regaining strength in an instant, jumped out of bed, seized all the
bottles of medicine, and in a fury sent the whole collection flying out
of the window. Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni was just in the act to
come into the house to pay a visit, and, as Fate would have it, two or
three of the phials hit him on the head, and breaking, sent the brown
liquid within them flowing in dark streams over his face, his periwig,
and his neckerchief. The doctor sprang nimbly into the house, and
cried, like a man possessed, "Signor Salvator is off his head! Delirium
has evidently set in--nothing can save him. He'll be a dead man in ten
minutes. Here with the picture, Dame Caterina; it belongs to me--all I
shall get for my services! Here with the picture, I tell you."
But when Dame Caterina opened the box, and Doctor Splendiano
Accoramboni saw the old cloaks and the burst and tattered boots and
shoes which it contained, his eyes rolled in his head like fire wheels,
he gnashed his teeth, stamped with his feet, devoted Salvator, the
widow, and all the inmates of the house, to the demons of hell, and
bolted out of the door as if discharged from a cannon.
When the paroxysm of excitement was over, Salvator again fell into a
deathlike condition, and Dame Caterina thought his last hour was
certainly come. So she ran as quickly as she could to the convent, and
brought Father Bonifazio to administer the sacraments to the dying man.
When Father Bonifazio came, he looked at the patient, said he very well
knew the peculiar signs which death imprints upon the face of one whom
he is going to carry off; but there was nothing of the sort to be seen
on the face of the unconscious Salvator in his faint, and that help was
still possible, and he himself would procure or bestow; only Doctor
Splendiano Accoramboni, with his Greek names and diabolical phials,
must never cross the doorstep again. The good father set to work, and
we shall find that he kept his word.
Salvator came to his senses, and it seemed to him that he was lying in
a delightful, sweet-smelling arbour, for green branches and leaves were
stretching over him. He felt a delightful salutary warmth of life
permeating him, only, apparently, his left arm was fettered.
"Where am I?" he cried, in a faint voice. Then a young man of handsome
appearance, whom he had not observed before, though he was standing by
his bed, fell down on his knees, seized Salvator's right hand, bathing
it in tears, and cried over and over again, "Oh, my beloved Signor, my
grand master! all is well now! You are saved; you will recover!"
"Well," began Salvator, "but tell me----"
The young man interrupted him, begging him not to talk in his weak
condition, and promising to tell him all that had been happening. "You
must know, my dear and great master, that you must have been
exceedingly ill when you arrived in Naples here; but your condition was
not probably very dangerous, and moderate measures, considering the
strength of your constitution, would doubtless have set you on your
legs again in a short time, if it had not happened, through Carlo's
well-meant mischance--as he ran for the nearest doctor at once--that
you fell into the clutches of the abominable Pyramid Doctor, who did
his very best to put you under the sod."
"The Pyramid Doctor?" said Salvator, laughing most heartily, weak as he
was. "Yes, yes; ill as I was, I saw him well enough, the little damasky
creature, who condemned me to swallow all that diabolical stuff--hell
broth as it was--and had the obelisk of the Piazza San Pietro on the
top of his head, which is the reason you call him the Pyramid Doctor."
"Oh, heavens!" cried the young man, laughing loudly too. "Yes, it was
Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni who appeared to you in that mysterious
high-pointed nightcap of his, in which he gleams out of his window in
the Piazza di Spagna every morning like some meteor of evil omen. But
it is not on account of the cap that he is called the Pyramid Doctor;
there is a very different reason for that. Doctor Splendiano is very
fond of pictures, and has a very fine collection, which he has got
together through a peculiar piece of technical practice. He keeps a
close and watchful eye upon painters and their illnesses, and
particularly he manages to throw his nets over stranger masters.
Suppose they have swallowed a little too much macaroni, or taken a cup
or two more syracuse than is good for them, he succeeds in throwing his
noose over them, and labels them with this or that disease, which he
christens by some monstrous name, and then sets to work to cure. As fee
he makes them promise him a picture, which, as it is only the strongest
constitutions which can resist the powerful drugs he administers, he
generally selects from the effects of the deceased, deposited at the
Pyramid of Cestius. He takes the best of them, and others into the
bargain. The refuse heap at the Pyramid of Cestius is the seedfield of
Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni, and he cultivates, dresses, and manures
it most assiduously. And that is why he is called the Pyramid Doctor.
Now Dame Caterina, with the best intentions, had given the doctor to
understand that you had brought a fine picture with you, and you can
imagine the ardour with which he set to work to brew potions for you.
It was lucky for you that in your paroxysm of fever you threw the stuff
at his head, that he left you in a fury, that Dame Caterina sent for
Father Bonifazio to administer the sacraments, believing you at death's
door. Father Bonifazio knows a great deal about doctoring; he formed a
correct opinion as to your condition, sent for me, and----"
"Then you are a doctor too," said Salvator, in a faint, melancholy
tone.
"No," answered the young gentleman, while a bright colour came to his
cheek, "my dear, renowned master, I am not a doctor like Signor
Splendiano Accoramboni; I am a surgeon. I thought I should have sunk
into the ground with terror--with joy--when Father Bonifazio told me
Salvator Rosa was lying sick to death in Strada Vergognona and
requiring my assistance. I hastened here, opened a vein in your left
arm, and you were saved. We brought you here to this cool, airy room,
where you used to live before. Look around you; there is the easel
which you left behind you; there are one or two sketches still,
preserved, like holy relics, by Dame Caterina. Your illness has had its
back broken. Simple remedies, which Father Bonifazio will give you, and
careful nursing will set you on your legs again. And now, permit me
once more to kiss this creative hand, which calls forth, as by magic,
the most hidden secrets of nature. Permit the poor Antonio Scacciati to
allow all his heart to stream forth in delight and fervent gratitude
that heaven vouchsafed to him the good fortune to save the life of the
glorious and renowned master, Salvator Rosa."
He again knelt, seized Salvator's hand, kissed it, and bedewed it with
hot tears as before.
"I cannot tell, dear Antonio," said Salvator, raising himself up a
little, "what strange spirit inspires you to exhibit such a profound
veneration for me. You say you are a surgeon, and that is a calling
which does not usually pair itself readily with art."
"When you have got some strength back, dear master," answered Antonio,
"there are many matters lying heavy at my heart which I will tell you
of."
"Do so," said Salvator; "place full confidence in me--you may, for I do
not know when a man's face went more truly to my very heart than does
yours. The more I look at you the more clear it becomes to me that
there is a great likeness in your face to that of the heavenly, godlike
lad--I mean the Sanzio." Antonio's eyes glowed with flashing fire; he
seemed to strive in vain to find words.
Just then Dame Caterina came in with Father Bonifazio, bringing a
draught which he had skilfully compounded, and which the sick man took,
and relished better than the Acherontic liquids of the Pyramid Doctor,
Splendiano Accoramboni.
* * * * * *
Antonio Scacciati comes to high honour through the intervention of
Salvator Rosa.--He confides to Salvator the causes of his
continual sorrowfulness, and Salvator comforts him, and promises
him help.
What Antonio promised came to pass. The simple, healing medicines of
Father Bonifazio, the careful nursing of Dame Caterina and her
daughters, the mild season of the year which just then came on, had
such a speedy effect on Salvator's strong constitution, that he soon
felt well enough to begin thinking of his art, and, as a beginning,
made some magnificent sketches for pictures which he intended to paint
at a future time.
Antonio scarcely left Salvator's room. He was all eye when the master
was sketching, and his opinions on many matters showed him to be
initiated in the mysteries of art himself.
"Antonio," said Salvator, one day, "you know so much about art that I
believe you have not only looked on at a great deal with correct
understanding, but have even wielded the pencil yourself!"
"Remember, dear master," answered Antonio, "that when you were
recovering from unconsciousness, I told you there were many things
lying heavy on my heart. Perhaps it is time, now, for me to divulge my
secrets to you fully. Although I am the surgeon who opened a vein for
you, I belong to Art with all my heart and soul. I intend now to devote
myself to it altogether, and throw the hateful handicraft entirely to
the winds."
"Ho, ho, Antonio!" said Salvator, "bethink you what you are going to
do. You are a clever surgeon, and perhaps will never be more than a
bungler at painting. Young as you are in years, you are too old to
begin with the crayon. A man's whole life is scarcely enough in which
to attain to one single perception of the True, still less to the power
of representing it poetically."
"Ah, my dear master," said Antonio, smiling gently, "how should I
entertain the mad idea of beginning now to turn myself to the difficult
art of painting, had I not worked at it as hard as I could ever since I
was a child, had not heaven so willed it that, though I was kept away
from art, and everything in the shape of it, by my father's obstinacy
and folly, I made the acquaintance, and enjoyed the society, of masters
of renown. Even the great Annibale interested himself in the neglected
boy, and I have the happiness to be able to say I am a pupil of Guido
Reni."
"Well, good Antonio," said Salvator, a little sharply, as his manner
sometimes was. "If that is so, you have had great teachers; so, no
doubt, in spite of your surgical skill, you may be a great pupil of
theirs too. Only what I do not understand is, how you, as a pupil of
the gentle and tender Guido (whom, perhaps, as pupils in their
enthusiasm sometimes do--you even outdo in tenderness, in your work),
how you can hold me to be a master in my art at all."
Antonio coloured at those words of Salvator's; in fact, they had about
them a ring of jeering irony.
Antonio answered: "Let me lay aside all bashfulness, which might close
my lips. Let me speak freely out exactly what is in my mind. Salvator,
I have never revered a master so wholly from out the very depths of my
being as I do you. It is the often superhuman grandeur of the ideas
which I admire in your works. You see, and comprehend, and grasp the
profoundest secrets of Nature. You read, and understand, the marvellous
hieroglyphs of her rocks, her trees, her waterfalls; you hear her
mighty voices; you interpret her language, and can transcribe what she
says to you. Yes, transcription is what I would call your bold and
vivid style of working. Man, with his doings, contents you not; you
look at him only as being in the lap of Nature, and in so far as his
inmost being is conditioned by her phenomena. Therefore, Salvator, it
is in marvellous combinations of landscape with figure that you are so
wondrous great. Historical painting places limits which hem your
flight, to your disadvantage."
"You tell me this, Antonio," said Salvator, "as the envious historical
painters do, who throw landscape to me by way of a _bonne-bouche_, that
I may occupy myself in chewing it, and abstain from tearing their
flesh. Do I not know the human figure, and everything appertaining to
it? However, all those silly slanders, echoed from others----"
"Do not be indignant, dear master," answered Antonio. "I do not repeat
things blindly after other folks, and least of all should I pay any
attention to the opinions of our masters here in Rome just now. Who
could help admiring the daring drawing, the marvellous expression, and
particularly the lively action, of your figures! One sees that you do
not work from the stiff, awkward model, or from the dead lay figure,
but that you are, yourself, your own living model, and that you draw
and paint the figure which you place on the canvas in front of a great
mirror."
"Heyday, Antonio!" cried Salvator, laughing. "I believe you must have
been peeping into my studio without my knowledge, to know so well what
goes on there."
"Might not that have been?" said Antonio. "But let me go on. The
pictures which your mighty genius inspires I should by no means narrow
into one class so strictly as the pedantic masters try to do. In fact,
the term 'landscape,' as generally understood, applies badly to your
paintings, which I should prefer to call 'historical representations.'
In a deeper sense, it often seems that this or the other rock, that or
the other tree, gazes on us with an earnest look: and that this and the
other group of strangely-attired people is like some wonderful crag
which has come to life. All Nature, moving in marvellous unity, speaks
out the sublime thought which glowed within you. This is how I have
looked at your pictures, and this is how I am indebted to you, my great
and glorious master, for a profound understanding of art. But do not
suppose that, on this account, I have fallen into a childishness of
imitation. Greatly as I wish I possessed your freedom and daring of
brush, I must confess that the colouring of Nature seems to me to be
different from what I see represented in your pictures. I hold that,
even for the sake of practice, it is helpful to a learner to imitate
the style of this or that master: but still, when once he stands on his
own feet, to a certain extent, he should strive to represent Nature as
he sees it himself. This true seeing, this being at unity with oneself,
is the only thing which can produce character and truth. Guido was of
this opinion, and the unresting Preti, whom, as you know, they call the
Calabrese, a painter who certainly reflected on his art more than any
other, warned me in the same way against slavish imitation. And now you
know, Salvator, why I reverence you more than all the others, without
being in the slightest degree your imitator, in any way."
Salvator had been gazing fixedly into the young man's eyes as he spoke,
and he now clasped him stormily to his breast.
"Antonio," he said, "you have spoken very wise words of deep
significance. Young as you are in years, you surpass, in knowledge of
art, many of our old, much belauded masters, who talk a great deal of
nonsense about their art, and never get to the bottom of the matter.
Truly, when you spoke of my pictures, it seemed that I was, for the
first time, beginning to come to a clear understanding of myself, and I
prize you very highly just because you do not imitate my style--that
you don't, like so many others, take a pot of black paint, lay on
staring high lights, make a few crippled-looking figures, in horrible
costumes, peep out of the dirty-looking ground, and then think 'There's
a Salvator.' You have found in me the truest of friends, and I devote
myself to you with all my soul."
Antonio was beyond himself with joy at the good will which the master
thus charmingly displayed to him. Salvator expressed a strong desire to
see Antonio's pictures, and Antonio took him at once to his studio.
Salvator had formed no small expectations of this youth who spoke so
understandingly about art, and in whom there seemed to be a peculiar
genius at work; and yet the master was most agreeably astonished by
Antonio's wealth of pictures. He found everywhere boldness of idea,
correctness of drawing; and the fresh colouring, the great tastefulness
of the breadth of the flow of folds, the unusual delicacy of the
extremities, and the high beauty of the heads evidenced the worthy
pupil of the great Reni; although Antonio's striving was not, like that
of his master (who was overapt to do this), to sacrifice expression to
beauty, often too visibly. One saw that Antonio aimed at Annibale's
strength, without, as yet, being able to attain to it.
In his first silence Salvator had examined each of Antonio's pictures
for a long time. At length he said: "Listen, Antonio, there is not the
slightest doubt about it, you are born for the noble painter's art. For
not only has Nature given you the creative spirit, from which the most
glorious ideas flame forth in inexhaustible wealth, but she has further
endowed you with the rare talent, which, in a brief time, overcomes the
difficulties of technical practice. I should be a lying flatterer if I
said you had as yet equalled your teachers, that you had attained to
Guido's marvellous delightsomeness, or Annibale's power; but it is
certain that you far surpass our masters who give themselves such airs
here in the Academy of San Luca, your Tiarini, Gessi, Sementa, and
whatever they may call themselves, not excepting Lanfranco, who can
only draw in chalk; and yet, Antonio, were I in your place I should
consider long before I threw away the lancet altogether, and took up
the brush. This sounds strange; but hear me further. Just at present an
evil time for art has begun; or rather, the devil seems to be busy
amongst our masters, stirring them up pretty freely. If you have not
made up your mind to meet with mortifications and vexations of every
kind, to suffer the more hatred and contempt the higher you soar in
art, as your fame increases everywhere to meet with villains, who
will press round you with friendly mien, to destroy you all the more
surely--if, I say, you have not made up your mind for all this, keep
aloof from painting! Think of the fate of your teacher, the great
Annibale, whom a knavish crew of fellow-painters in Naples persecuted
so that he could not get a single great work to undertake, but was
everywhere shown the door with despite, which brought him to his
untimely grave. Think what happened to our Domenichino, when he was
painting the cupola of the chapel of St. Januarius. Didn't the villains
of painters there (I shall not mention any of their names, not
even that scoundrel Belisario's or Ribera's), did not they bribe
Domenichino's servant to put ashes into the lime, so that the
plastering would not bind? The painting could thus have no permanence.
Think on all those things, and prove yourself well, whether your spirit
is strong enough to withstand the like; for otherwise your power will
be broken, and when the firm courage to make is gone, the power to do
it is gone along with it."
"Ah, Salvator," said Antonio, "it is scarcely possible that, had I once
devoted myself entirely to painting, I should have to undergo more
despite and contempt than I have had to suffer already, being still a
surgeon. You have found pleasure in my pictures, and you have said,
doubtless from inner conviction, that I have it in me to do better
things than many of our San Luca men. And yet it is just they who turn
up their noses at all that I have, with much industry, achieved, and
say, contemptuously, 'Ho, ho, the surgeon thinks he can paint a
picture!' But, for that very reason my decision is firmly come to, to
get clear of a calling which is more and more hateful to me every day.
It is on you, master, that I pin all my hopes. Your word is worth much.
If you chose to speak for me you could at once dash my envious
persecutors to the dust, and put me in the place which is mine by
right."
"You have great confidence in me," said Salvator; "but now that we have
so thoroughly understood each other as to our art, and now that I have
seen your works, I do not know any one for whom I should take up the
cudgels, and that with all my might, so readily as I should for you."
Salvator once more examined Antonio's pictures, and paused before one
representing a Magdalone at the Saviour's feet, which he specially
commended.
"You have departed," he said, "from the style in which people generally
represent this Magdalene. Your Magdalene is not an earnest woman, but
rather an ingenuous, charming child, and such a wondrous one as nobody
else (except Guido) could have painted. There is a peculiar charm about
the beautiful creature. You have painted her with enthusiasm, and, if I
am not deceived, the original of this Magdalene is in life, and here in
Rome. Confess, Antonio, you are in love."
Antonio cast his eyes down and said, softly and bashfully: "Nothing
escapes those sharp eyes of yours, my dear master. It may be as you
say, but don't blame me. I prize this picture most of all, and I have
kept it concealed from every one's sight, like a holy mystery."
"What!" cried Salvator, "have none of the painters seen this picture?"
"That is so," said Antonio.
"Then," said Salvator, his eyes shining with joy, "be assured, Antonio,
that I will overthrow your envious, puffed-up enemies, and bring you to
merited honour. Entrust your picture to me--send it secretly in the
night to my lodgings, and leave the rest to me. Will you?"
"A thousand times yes, with gladness," answered Antonio. "Ah! I should
like to tell you, at once, the troubles connected with my love-affair,
but somehow it seems to me that I do not dare, to-day, just when our
hearts have opened to one another in art; but some day I shall probably
ask you to advise and help me in that direction too."
"Both my advice and my help shall be at your service wherever and
whenever they may be necessary," Salvator answered. As he was leaving
he turned round and said with a smile: "Antonio, when you told me you
were a painter, I was sorry I had mentioned your likeness to the
Sanzio. I thought you might be silly enough, as many of our young
fellows are, if they chance to have a passing likeness in the face to
this or that great master, they take to wearing their hair and beard as
he does, and find it necessary to imitate his style in art as well,
though it may be quite contrary to their character. We have neither of
us named the name of Raphael; but, believe me, in your pictures I find
distinct traces of the extent to which the whole heaven of godlike
ideas in the works of the greatest master of our time has been revealed
to you. You understand Raphael. You will not reply to me as did
Velasquez, whom I asked, the other day, what he thought of the Sanzio.
He said Titian was the greater master; Raphael knew nothing about flesh
colour. In that Spaniard is the Flesh, not the Word; yet they laud him
to the skies in San Luca, because he once painted cherries which the
birds came and tried to peck."
A few days after the above conversation, it happened that the
Academists of San Luca assembled in their church to judge the pictures
of the painters who had applied for admission to the Academy. Salvator
had sent Scacciati's beautiful Magdalene picture. The painters were
amazed by the charm and the power of the work, and the most unstinted
praise resounded from every lip when Salvator explained that he had
brought the picture with him from Naples--the work of a young painter,
prematurely snatched away by death.
In a very short time all Rome streamed to see and admire this work of
the young, unknown, dead master. Every one was unanimously of opinion
that no such picture had been painted since Guido Reni's time, and,
indeed, people carried their enthusiasm so far as to declare that this
work was even to be ranked above Guido Reni's creations of the same
kind. Among the crowd of people who were always collected before
Scacciati's picture, Salvator one day observed a man, who, besides
being of very remarkable exterior, was conducting himself like a
madman. He was advanced in years, tall, lean as a spindle, pale of
face, with a long, pointed nose, and an equally long chin, which
increased its pointedness by being tipped with a little beard, and
green, flashing eyes. Upon his thick, extremely fair peruke he had
stuck a tall hat with a fine feather. He had on a short, dark-red cloak
with many shining buttons, a sky-blue Spanish-slashed doublet, great
gauntlets trimmed with silver fringe, a long sword by his side, light
grey hose drawn over his bony knees, and bound with yellow ribbons, and
bows of the same ribbon on his shoes. This strange figure was standing,
as if enraptured, before the picture. He would stand up on his tiptoes,
then bob himself quite low down; then hop up, with both legs at once,
sigh, groan, close his eyes so tightly that the tears streamed from
them, and then open them as wide as they would go; gaze incessantly at
the beautiful Magdalene, sigh afresh, and lisp out in his mournful,
_castrato_ voice, "Ah, Carissima! Benedetissima! Ah, Marianna!
Marianna! Belissima!" &c.
Salvator, always greedy after figures of this sort, got as near to him
as he could, and tried to enter into conversation with him about
Scacciati's picture, which seemed to delight him so much; but, without
taking much heed of Salvator, the old fellow cursed his poverty, which
would not allow him to buy this picture for a million, and so prevent
any one else from fixing his devilish glances upon it. And then he
hopped up and down again, and thanked the Virgin and all the saints
that the infernal painter who had painted this heavenly picture, which
drove him to madness and despair, was dead and gone.
Salvator came to the conclusion that the man must be either a maniac,
or some Academician of San Luca whom he did not know.
All Rome rang with the fame of Scacciati's wonderful picture. Scarce
anything else was talked of, and this ought to have been enough to show
its superiority. When the painters held their next meeting in San Luca
to decide as to the reception of sundry applicants for admission,
Salvator Rosa made a sudden inquiry whether the painter of the
Magdalene at the Saviour's feet would not have been worthy to be
admitted. All the members of the Academy, not excepting the excessively
critical Cavaliere Josepin, declared, with one voice, that such a great
master would have been an ornament to the Academy, and, in the most
studied forms of speech, expressed their regret that he was dead
(though in their hearts they thanked heaven that he was). Not only
this, but in their enthusiasm for art, they decided to elect this
marvellous young painter an Academician, notwithstanding that he had
been withdrawn from art by a premature death; directing masses to be
said for the repose of his soul in the church of San Luca. Wherefore
they requested Salvator to acquaint them with the full names of the
deceased, as well as the year and place of his birth, &c., &c.
On this Salvator rose up and said: "Signori, the honours which you fain
would pay to a man in his grave are due to, and had better be bestowed
on, a living painter, who is walking to and fro in our midst. Know ye
that the Magdalene at the Saviour's feet--the picture which you have
such a high opinion of justly, and esteem so highly above anything
which living painters have produced--is not the work of a Neapolitan
painter no longer in life, as I pretended it was, that your verdict
might be unbiassed. This picture, this masterpiece, which all Rome
admires at this moment, is by the hand of Antonio Scacciati, the
surgeon."
The painters glared dumb and motionless at Salvator, like men struck by
lightning. Salvator enjoyed their consternation for a short time, and
then went on to say: "Well, gentlemen, you would not allow Antonio to
come amongst you because he is a surgeon; but I think the Academy of
San Luca is in very great need of a surgeon to mend and set the
crippled arms and legs of the figures which come from the studios of
many of its members. However, I presume you will not longer delay to do
what you ought to have done long ago; that is, to admit this admirable
painter, Antonio Scacciati, a member of your Academy."
The Academicians swallowed Salvator's bitter pill; they said they were
much overjoyed that Antonio had displayed his talent in such a striking
and decided manner, and they elected him a member of the Academy with
much ceremony. As soon as it was known in Rome that Antonio was the
painter of the wonderful picture, there streamed in upon him from all
sides congratulations, and commissions to undertake great and important
works. Thus was this young painter--thanks to Salvator's method of
setting to work--brought, in a moment, out of obscurity, and raised to
high honour, at the very juncture when he had made up his mind to start
upon his career as an artist.
Floating and hovering, as he was, in an atmosphere of happiness and
bliss, it all the more surprised Salvator one day when Antonio came to
him, pale and upset, full of anger and despair. "Ah, Salvator," he
cried, "what does it avail me that you have set me up on a pinnacle,
where I could never have dreamt of being, that I am overwhelmed with
praise and honour, that the prospect of the most delightful and
glorious artistic career opens before me, when I am inexpressibly
unhappy, when the very picture, to which, next to yourself, dear
master, I am indebted for my victory, is the express cause of
irremediable misfortune to me?"
"Silence!" cried Salvator. "Do not commit a sin against your art and
your picture. I don't believe a word as to your irremediable
misfortune. You are in love, and perhaps things are not going in all
respects exactly as you wish; but that is all, no doubt. Lovers are
like children, they cry and yell the moment anybody touches their toy.
Leave off lamenting, I beg of you; it is a thing which I cannot endure.
Sit down there, and tell me quietly how matters stand as regards your
beautiful Magdalene and your love-affair altogether, and where the
stumbling-blocks are which we must get out of the way, for I promise
you, to commence with, that I will help you. The more difficult and
arduous and adventurous the things are that we have to set about, the
better I shall be pleased, for the blood is running quick in my veins
again, and the state of my health calls upon me to set to work and play
a wild trick or two; so tell me all about it, Antonio, and, as
aforesaid, none of your 'Ohs' and your 'Ahs.'"
Antonio sat down in the chair which Salvator had placed for him near
the easel where he was at work, and commenced as follows:--
"In Strada Ripetta, in the lofty house whose projecting balcony you see
as soon as you go through the Porta del Popolo, lives the greatest ass
and most idiotic donkey in all Rome. An old bachelor, with all the
faults of his class--vain, trying to be young, in love, and a coxcomb.
He is tall, thin as a whip-stalk, dresses in party-coloured Spanish
costume, with a blonde periwig, a steeple-crowned hat, gauntlets, and
long sword at his side----"
"Stop, stop! wait a moment, Antonio," cried Salvator, and, turning
round the picture he was working at, he took a crayon, and, on the
reverse side of it, drew, in a few bold touches, the curious old fellow
who had been going on so absurdly in front of Antonio's picture.
"By all the saints!" cried Antonio, jumping up from his chair, and
laughing loud and clear in spite of his despair, "that is the very
man--that is Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, of whom I am speaking, to the
very life."
"There, you see," said Salvator quietly, "I know the gentleman who is
probably your bitter rival. But go on with your story."
"Signor Pasquale Capuzzi," continued Antonio, "is as rich as Cr[oe]sus,
but, as I think I was telling you, a terrible miser, as well as a
perfect ass. His best quality is that he is devoted to the arts,
particularly to music and painting. But there is so much idiotic
absurdity mixed up with this, that, even in those directions, it is
impossible to put up with him. He believes himself to be the greatest
composer in the world, and a singer the like of whom is not to be found
in the Papal Chapel. Therefore he looks askance at our old Frescobaldi,
and when the Romans talk of the marvellous charm and spell which
Ceccarelli's voice possesses, he thinks Ceccarelli knows as much about
singing as an old slipper, and that he--Capuzzi--is the person to
enchant the world. But as the Pope's principal singer bears the proud
name of Edoardo Ceccarelli di Merania, our Capuzzi likes to be styled
'Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia,' for his mother bore him in
that place, and, in fact, people say, in a fishing-boat, from sudden
terror at the rising of a sea-calf, and there is, consequently, a great
deal of the sea-calf in his nature. In early life he put an opera on
the stage, and it was hissed off it in the completest manner possible;
but that did not cure him of his craze for writing diabolical music. On
the other hand, when he heard Francesco Cavalli's opera, 'Le Nozze di
Teti e di Peleo,' he said the Capellmeister had borrowed the most
sublime ideas from his own immortal works; for saying which he had a
narrow escape of cudgellings, or even of knife-thrusts. He is still
possessed with the idea of singing arias, accompanying himself by
torturing a wretched guitar, which has to groan and sigh in support of
his mewing and caterwauling. His faithful Pylades is a broken-down,
dwarfish Castrato, whom the Romans call Pitichinaccio; and guess who
completes the trio. Well, none other than the Pyramid Doctor, who emits
sounds like a melancholy jackass, and is under the impression that he
sings a magnificent bass, as good as Martinelli's, of the Papal Chapel.
Those three worthies meet together of evenings, and sit on the balcony,
singing motetts of Carissimi's till all the dogs and cats in the
neighbourhood yell and howl, and the human beings within earshot devote
the hellish trio to all the thousand devils.
"My father," Antonio continued, "was in the habit of going in and out
of the house of this incomparable idiot, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi (whom
you know sufficiently well from my description), because he used to
dress his wig and his beard. When he died, I undertook those offices,
and Capuzzi was greatly pleased with me, firstly, because he considered
that I was able to give his moustaches a bold upward twist in a manner
which nobody else could, and further, doubtless, because I was
satisfied with the two or three quattrinos which he gave me for my
trouble. But he thought he was over-paying me, inasmuch as, every
time I dressed his beard he would croak out to me, with closed eyes,
an aria of his own composing, which flayed the skin off my ears,
although the remarkable antics of this creature afforded me much
entertainment--which was the reason I continued to go back to him. I on
one occasion walked gently up the stairs, knocked at the door, and
opened it, when there met me a girl--an angel of light! You know my
Magdalene!--it was she. I stood rooted to the spot. No, no, Salvator, I
won't treat you to any 'Ohs' or 'Ahs.' I need but say that on the
instant, when I saw the loveliest of all ladies, I fell into the
deepest, fondest affection for her. The old fellow said, with simpers,
that she was the daughter of his brother Pietro, who had died in
Senegaglia, that her name was Marianna, and that, as she had no mother,
and neither brothers nor sisters, he had taken her into his house. You
may imagine that from that time forth Capuzzi's dwelling was my
paradise. But, scheme as I might, I could never be alone with Marianna
for a single instant; yet her eyes, as well as many a stolen sigh, and
even many a pressure of the hand, left me in no doubt of my happiness.
The old man found this out, and it was not a very difficult matter. He
told me that he was by no means pleased with my behaviour to his niece,
and asked me what I meant by it. I candidly confessed that I loved her
with all my soul, and could imagine no more perfect bliss on earth than
to make her my wife. On this, Capuzzi eyed me up and down, broke into
sneering laughter, and said that he could not have imagined that ideas
of the kind could have haunted the brain of a wretched hairdresser. My
blood got up: I said he knew very well that I was by no means a mere
wretched hairdresser, but a skilled surgeon, and, more than that, as
concerned the glorious art of painting, a faithful scholar and pupil of
the grand Annibale Caracci, and the unsurpassed Guido Reni. On this the
despicable Capuzzi broke out into louder laughter, and squeaked out, in
his abominable falsetto: 'Very good, my sweet Signor Beard-curler, my
talented Signor Surgeon, my charming Annibale Caracci, my most beloved
Guido Reni, _go to all the devils_, and don't show that nose of yours
inside my door again, unless you want every bone in your body broken.'
And the demented old totterer actually took hold of me with no less
an idea in his head than that of chucking me out of the door and
downstairs. But this was rather more than could be endured. I was
furious, and I seized hold of the fellow, turned him topsy-turvy, with
his toes pointing to the ceiling (screaming at the top of his lungs),
and ran downstairs and out of the door, which was from thenceforth
closed against me.
"Matters were in this position when you came to Rome, and Heaven
inspired the good Father Bonifazio to conduct me to you; and then, when
that had happened, through your cleverness, which I had striven after
in vain, when the Academy of San Luca had admitted me, and all Rome
was praising and honouring me above my desert, I went straight away to
the old man, and appeared suddenly before him in his room like a
threatening spectre. That is what I must have seemed like to him, for
he turned as pale as death, and drew back behind a table, trembling in
every limb. In a grave, firm voice, I told him that I was not now the
Beard-curler and Surgeon, but the celebrated Painter, and Member of the
Academy of San Luca, Antonio Scacciati, to whom he could not refuse his
niece's hand. You should have seen the fury into which the old man
fell. He yelled, he beat about him with his arms, he cried out that I
was a remorseless murderer, seeking to take his life, that I had stolen
his Marianna away from him, as I had counterfeited her in the picture
which drove him to madness and despair. That now all the world--all the
world--was looking at his Marianna, his life, his hope, his everything,
with longing, coveting eyes; but that I had better be careful, for he
would burn the house down about my ears, and make an end of me and my
picture together. And on this he began to vociferate, and scream out so
loudly, 'Fire!--murder!--thieves!--help!' that I thought of nothing but
getting out of the house as speedily as possible.
"You see that this old lunatic Capuzzi is over head and ears in
love with his niece. He keeps her shut up, and, if he can get a
dispensation, he will force her to the most horrible marriage
conceivable. All hope is at an end."
"Why not, indeed?" said Salvator, laughing. "For my part, I think,
rather, that your affairs could not possibly be in a better position.
Marianna loves you--you know that well enough--and all that has to be
done is to get her out of the clutches of this old lunatic. Now I
really do not see what should prevent two adventurous, sturdy fellows,
like you and me, from accomplishing this. Keep up your heart, Antonio!
Instead of lamenting, and getting to be love-sick and powerless, the
thing to do is to keep thinking on Marianna's rescue. Just watch,
Antonio, how we will lead the old donkey by the nose. The very wildest
undertakings are not wild enough for me, in circumstances like those.
This very moment I shall set to work to see what more I can find out
about the old fellow and all his ways of life. You must not let
yourself be seen in this, Antonio. Go you quietly home, and come to me
to-morrow as early as you can, that we may consider the plan for our
first attack."
With that Salvator washed his brushes, threw on his cloak, and hastened
to the Corso; whilst Antonio, comforted, and with fresh hope in his
heart, went home, as Salvator had enjoined him.
* * * * * *
Signor Pasquale Capuzzi makes his appearance in Salvator Rosa's
abode.--What happened there.--Rosa and Scacciati's artful
stratagem, and its consequences.
Antonio was not a little surprised, the next morning, when Salvator
gave him the most minute account of Capuzzi's whole manner of life,
which, in the interval, he had found out all about. Salvator said the
miserable Marianna was tortured by the crack-brained old scoundrel in
the most fiendish manner. That he sighed, and made love to her all day
long; and, what was worse, by way of touching her heart, sang to her
all sorts of amorous ditties and arias which he had composed, or
attempted to compose. Moreover, he was so madly jealous that he would
not allow this much-to-be-compassionated girl even the usual female
attendance, for fear of love-intrigues to which the Abigail might
possibly be corrupted. "Instead of that," Salvator went on, "there
comes, every morning and evening, a little horrible, ghastly spectre of
a creature, with hollow eyes, and pale, flabby, hanging cheeks, to do
what a maid-servant ought to do for the beautiful Marianna. And this
spectre is none other than that tiny hop-o-my-thumb Pitichinaccio,
dressed in woman's clothes. When Capuzzi is away, he carefully locks
and bars all the doors; and besides that, watch and ward is kept by
that infernal fellow who was once a Bravo, afterwards a Sbirro, who
lives downstairs in Capuzzi's house. Therefore it seems impossible to
get inside the door. But I promise you, Antonio, that to-morrow night
you shall be in the room with Capuzzi, and see your Marianna, though,
this time, only in Capuzzi's presence."
"What!" cried Antonio, "is that which appears to me an impossibility
going to come to pass to-morrow night?"
"Hush, Antonio!" said Salvator; "let us calmly reflect how the plan
which I have hit upon is to be carried out. To begin with, I must tell
you that I have a certain connection with Signor Capuzzi which I was
not aware of. That wretched spinett standing in the corner there is his
property, and I am supposed to be going to pay him the exorbitant price
of ten ducats for it. When I had got somewhat better after my illness,
I had a longing for music, which is consolation and recreation to me. I
asked my landlady to get hold of an instrument of that sort for me.
Dame Caterina soon found out that a certain old fellow in Strada
Ripetta had an old spinett for sale. It was brought here, and I
troubled myself neither about the price nor about the owner. It was
only last night that I discovered that it was our honourable Signor
Capuzzi who was going to swindle me with his old, broken-down
instrument. Dame Caterina had applied to an acquaintance who lives in
the house with Capuzzi, and, in fact, on the same storey; so that now
you see where I got all my information from."
"Ha!" cried Antonio; "thus is the means of admission discovered. Your
landlady----"
"I know what you are going to say," said Salvator. "You think the way
to your Marianna is through Dame Caterina. That would never do at all.
Dame Caterina is much too talkative; she can't keep the most trifling
secret, and is therefore by no means to be made use of in our
undertaking. Listen to me, quietly. Every evening, when the little
Castrato has done the maid-servant work, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi
carries him home in his arms, difficult as that job is, considering the
shakiness of his own old knees. Not for all the world would the
timorous Pitichinaccio set foot on the pavement at that time of the
night. Very good; when----"
At this moment a knock came to Salvator's door, and, to the no small
astonishment of both, in came Signor Pasquale Capuzzi in all his glory.
As soon as he saw Scacciati he stood still, as if paralysed in every
limb, opened his eyes wide, and panted for air as if his breath would
fail him. But Salvator hurried up to him, took him by both hands, and
cried out: "My dear Signor Pasquale! how highly honoured I am that you
should visit me in my humble lodging. Doubtless it is the love of art
that brings you. You wish to look at what I have been doing lately;
perhaps you are even going to honour me with a commission. Tell me,
dear Signor Pasquale, wherein I can do you a pleasure."
"I have to speak with you," stammered Capuzzi, with difficulty, "dear
Signor Salvator; but, alone; when you are by yourself. Allow me to take
my departure for the present, and come back at a more convenient time."
"By no means, my dear Signor," said Salvator, holding the old man fast.
"You must not go. You could not possibly have come at a more convenient
time, for, as you are a great honourer of the noble art of painting, it
will give you no small joy when I present to you here Antonio
Scacciati, the greatest painter of our time, whose glorious picture,
the marvellous 'Magdalene at the Saviour's feet,' all Rome regards with
the utmost enthusiasm. No doubt you are full of the picture, like the
rest, and have been anxious to make the painter's acquaintance."
The old man was seized by a violent trembling. He shook like one in the
cold stage of a fever, sending, the while, burning looks of rage at
Antonio; who, however, went up to him with easy courtesy, declaring
that he thought himself fortunate to meet Signor Pasquale Capuzzi,
whose profound knowledge of music, as well as of painting, not only
Rome, but all Italy admired, and he recommended himself to his
protection.
It restored the old fellow to his self-control that Antonio treated him
as if he met him for the first time, and addressed him in such
flattering terms. He forced himself to a sort of simpering smile, and
(Salvator having let go his hands) softly stroked the points of his
moustaches heavenwards, stammered a few unintelligible words, and then
turned to Salvator, whom he attacked on the subject of the payment of
the ten ducats. "We will settle that every-day little affair
afterwards," said Salvator. "First let it please you to look at the
sketches which I have made for a picture, and, as you do so, to drink a
glass of good Syracuse." Salvator placed his sketches on the easel,
drew up a chair for the old gentleman, and, when he had seated himself,
handed him a large, beautiful goblet, in which the noble Syracuse was
sparkling.
The old man was only too fond of a glass of good wine, when he had not
to pay for it; and, moreover, as he was expecting to receive ten ducats
for a worn-out, rickety spinett, and was seated before a boldly
sketched-in picture, whose wonderful beauty he was quite capable of
appreciating, he could not but feel exceedingly happy in his mind. This
satisfaction he gave expression to, smirking quite pleasantly, stroking
his chin and moustaches assiduously, half closing his eyes, and
whispering, time after time, "Glorious! Precious!" without its clearly
appearing whether he referred to the picture or to the wine.
As he had now become quite friendly, Salvator said, suddenly: "Tell me,
my dear sir, is it not the case that-you have a most beautiful niece,
of the name of Marianna? All our young fellows are continually rushing
to the Strada Ripetta, impelled by love-craziness. They give themselves
cricks in the neck with gazing up at your balcony in the hope of seeing
her, and catching a glance from her heavenly eyes."
The complacent smirk disappeared instantly from the old man's face, and
all the good humour with which the wine had inspired him vanished.
Gazing before him gloomily, he said, in a harsh voice: "See there the
profound corruption of our sinful youth, who fasten their diabolical
looks on children, detestable seducers that they are!--for I assure
you, my dear sir, my niece Marianna is a mere child--a mere child
scarce out of the nursery!"
Salvator changed the subject. The old man recovered his composure; but
when, with new sunshine in his face, he placed the full goblet to his
lips, Salvator set on him again, with: "Tell me, my dear Signor, has
your niece (that young lady of sixteen), the lovely Marianna, really
that wonderful chestnut-brown hair, and those eyes, full of the rapture
and bliss of Heaven, which we see in Antonio's Magdalene? That is what
is everywhere said."
"I can't say," cried the old man, in an angrier tone than before.
"Don't let us refer to my niece; we can exchange words of more
importance on the subject of the noble art to which your beautiful
picture itself leads us."
But as, whenever the old man took up the goblet and placed it to his
lips to take a good draught, Salvator again began to speak of the
beautiful Marianna, Pasquale at last sprung from his chair in fury,
banged the goblet down on the table with such violence that it was
nearly being broken, and cried in a screaming voice: "By the black,
hellish Pluto, by all the Furies, you make the wine poison--poison to
me. But I see how it is. You, and your fine Signor Antonio along with
you, think you will make a fool of me; but you won't find it quite so
easy. Pay me this instant the ten ducats you owe me, and I will leave
you and your comrade, the beard-curler Antonio, to all the devils."
Salvator cried out as if overcome by the most furious anger, "What! You
dare to treat me in this manner in my own lodging? Pay you ten ducats
for that rotten old box, out of which the worms have long since gnawed
all the marrow, all the sound! Not ten, not five, not three, not a
single ducat will I pay you for that spinett, which is scarcely worth a
quattrino. Away with the crippled old thing," and therewith Salvator
sent the little spinett spinning round and round with his foot, its
strings giving out a loud wail of sorrow.
"Ha!" screamed Capuzzi, "there is still law in Rome. I will have
you put in prison, into the deepest dungeon;" and, growling like a
thunder-cloud, he was making for the door. But Salvator put both his
arms about him, set him down in the chair again, and whispered in his
ear in dulcet tones, "My dear Signor Pasquale, do you not see that I am
only joking? Not ten, thirteen ducats you shall have for your spinett,"
and went on repeating into his ear, "thirteen bright ducats," so long
and so often that Capuzzi said, in a faint, feeble voice, "What say
you, dear sir? Thirteen ducats for the spinett, and nothing for the
repairs?" Then Salvator let him go, and assured him, on his honour,
that in an hour's time the spinett should be worth thirty--forty
ducats, and that he, Capuzzi, should get that sum for it.
The old man, drawing breath, murmured: with a deep sigh, "Thirty--forty
ducats!" Then he added, "But you have greatly enraged me, Signor
Salvator." "Thirty ducats," reiterated Salvator. The old man blinked
his eyes. But then again, "You have wounded me to the heart, Signor
Salvator." "Thirty ducats," said Salvator again and again, till at
length the old man said, quite appeased, "If I can get thirty or forty
ducats for my spinett, all will be forgotten and forgiven, dear
Signor."
"But before I fulfil my promise," said Salvator, "I have one little
stipulation to make which you, my worthy Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di
Senegaglia, can easily comply with. You are the first composer in all
Italy, and, into the bargain, the very finest singer that can possibly
be found. I have listened with rapture to the grand scena in the opera
'Le Nozze di Teti e di Peleo,' which the villain Francesco Cavalli has
cribbed from you and given out as his own. If you would be good enough
to sing me that aria during the time that I am setting the spinett to
rights, I cannot imagine anything more delightful that could happen to
me."
The old fellow screwed his face up into the most sugary smile
imaginable, twitched his eyebrows, and said, "It is easy to see that
you are a fine musician yourself, Signor, for you have taste, and you
can value people better than the unthankful Romans. Listen, listen to
the aria of all arias."
He rose up, stood on the extreme points of his tiptoes, stretched out
his arms, and closed both his eyes (so that he was exactly like a cock
making ready for a crow), and immediately began to utter such a
terrible screeching that the walls resounded again, and Dame Caterina
came rushing in with her two daughters, having no other idea than that
the terrible howling indicated the happening of some signal disaster.
They stood completely bewildered in the doorway when they became aware
of the old gentleman crooning in this manner, thus constituting
themselves the audience of this unheard-of virtuoso, Capuzzi.
But as this was going on, Salvator had set the spinett to rights, shut
down the top of it, taken his palette and set to work to paint, in bold
touches, upon the very cover of the spinett, the most wonderful subject
imaginable. The principal theme of it was a scene from Cavalli's opera,
'Le Nozze di Teti;' but there was mingled with this, in utterly
fantastic fashion, a whole crowd of other characters, amongst whom were
Capuzzi, Antonio, Marianna (exactly as she appeared in Antonio's
picture), Salvator himself, Dame Caterina and her daughters, and even
the Pyramid Doctor, and all so genially and comprehendingly pourtrayed,
that Antonio could not conceal his delight at the Maestro's talent and
technique.
The old fellow by no means restricted himself to the scena which
Salvator had asked him for, but went on singing, or rather crowing,
without cessation, working his way through the most terrible
recitatives from one diabolical aria to another. This may have
gone on for some two hours or so, till he sank down into an arm-chair,
cherry-brown of countenance. By that time, however, Salvator had got so
far with his sketch that everything in it appeared to be alive, and the
effect of it, when seen a little way off, was that of a finished
picture.
"I have kept my promise as regards the spinett, dear Signor Capuzzi,"
Salvator whispered into the old man's ear, and Capuzzi sprang up like
one awaking from sleep. His eyes fell on the painted spinett; he opened
them wide, as if looking upon a miracle, crammed his peaked hat down on
to his periwig, took his crook-headed stick under his arm, made one
jump to the spinett, wrenched the cover of it out of the hinges, and
ran, like one possessed, out of the door, down the steps, and off and
away out of the house, whilst Dame Caterina and her daughters
accompanied his exit with bursts of laughter.
"The old skinflint knows very well," said Salvator, "that he has only
to take the painted top of the spinett to Count Colonna, or to my
friend Rossi, to get forty ducats, or more, for it in a moment."
Salvator and Antonio now set about considering the plan of attack which
they were about to carry out on the following night. We shall presently
see what it was, and what was the success of their attempt.
When night came, Pasquale, after carefully bolting and barring up his
house, carried the little monster of a Castrato home. The little
creature mewed and complained all the way, that not only was he
compelled to sing his lungs into a consumption over Capuzzi's arias,
and burn his hands with cooking of macaroons, but, into the bargain,
was employed in a service which brought him in nothing but cuffs on the
ears and sound kicks, which Marianna dealt out to him in ample measure
whenever he came into her vicinity. The old gentleman comforted him
as well as he could, promising to supply him more plentifully with
sugar-stuff than he had hitherto done, and even going so far as to enter
into a solemn undertaking (inasmuch as the little wretch would not cease
whining and lamenting) to have a little Abbate's coat made for him out
of an old black plush doublet, which he had often looked upon with
envious glances. He demanded, besides, a periwig and a sword.
Discussing those matters, they reached the Strada Vergognona, for that
was where Pitichinaccio lived, and, indeed, only four doors from
Salvator.
The old man set the little creature carefully down, and opened the
door. Then they went up the narrow steps, more like a hen's ladder than
anything else; but scarcely had they got half-way up when they became
aware of a tremendous raging on the storey above, and a wild drunken
fellow made his voice heard, calling upon all the devils in hell to
show him the way out of this accursed, haunted house. Pitichinaccio,
who was in front, pressed himself close to the wall and implored
Capuzzi to go on first, for the love of all the saints. Scarcely,
however, had Capuzzi gone a step or two up when the fellow from above
came stumbling down the stairs, came upon Capuzzi like a whirlwind,
seized hold of him, and went floundering down with him through the open
door right into the middle of the street. There they remained lying
prostrate, Capuzzi nethermost, and the drunken fellow on the top of
him, like a heavy sack. Capuzzi screamed pitifully for help, and
immediately there appeared two men, who, with much pains, eased Capuzzi
of his burden, the drunken fellow, who went staggering away as they did
so.
The two men were Salvator and Antonio, and they cried, "Jesus! what has
happened to you, Signor Capuzzi? What are you doing here at this time
of the night? You seem to have had some bad business going on in the
house."
"It's all over with me," groaned Capuzzi; "the hellhound has broken
every bone in my body. I can't move a muscle."
"Let us see--let us see!" said Antonio; and he felt him all over,
giving him, in the course of his examination, a pinch in the right leg
of such shrewdness that Capuzzi uttered a yell.
"Saints and angels!" ejaculated Antonio, "your right leg is broken just
at the most dangerous place. If it is not attended to immediately, you
are a dead man; or, at the very least, lamed for life."
Capuzzi uttered a frightful howl. "Calm yourself, my dear Signor," said
Antonio. "Although I am a painter now, I have not forgotten my surgery.
We will carry you into Salvator's lodgings, and I will bandage you
properly at once."
"Dear Signor Antonio," whined Capuzzi, "you are inimically minded
towards me, I am aware."
"Ah!" interposed Salvator, "there can be no question of enmity in a
case like this. You are in danger, and that is sufficient reason why
the honourable Antonio should devote all his skill to your service.
Take hold of him, friend Antonio."
Together they lifted the old man up softly and carefully, and carried
him--crying out over the suffering which his broken leg caused him--to
Salvator's lodgings.
Dame Caterina declared she had felt quite certain that something was
going to happen, and consequently hadn't been able to go to bed. And
when she saw the old gentleman and heard what had happened to him, she
broke out into reproaches as to his works and ways. "I know well
enough, Signor Pasquale, who it was that you were taking home, as
usual. You think, as long as you have your pretty niece Marianna at
home with you, you don't require any woman to do anything there, and
you most shamefully and God-defiantly misuse that poor creature of a
Pitichinaccio, whom you dress up in woman's clothes. But remember,
_ogni carne ha il mio osso_--every flesh has its own bones. If you have
a girl in the house, you can't do without women. _Fate il passo secondo
il gamba_--don't stretch your legs farther than the bedcover goes, and
don't do more, nor less, than what is right for your Marianna. Don't
shut her up like a prisoner. Don't turn your house into a gaol. _Asino
punto convien che trotti_--one who has started on the road must go
along. You have a pretty niece, and you must arrange your life
accordingly; that's to say, you mustn't do what she doesn't wish. But
you are an ungallant, hard-hearted man, and (I'm afraid I must say, at
your time of life), amorous and jealous into the bargain. You must
pardon me for saying all this straight out to your face, but you know
_chi ha nel petto fiele, non pu sputar miele_--what the heart is
full of comes out at the lips. If you don't die of this accident of
yours--as, at your time of life, it is to be feared you will--I hope it
will be a warning to you, and you'll leave your niece at liberty to do
what she wishes, and marry the charming young gentleman whom I think I
know about."
Thus did the stream of Dame Caterina's words flow on, whilst Salvator
and Antonio carefully undressed the old gentleman and laid him on the
bed. Dame Caterina's words were dagger-thrusts, which went deep into
his heart; but, whenever he tried to get in a word between them,
Antonio impressed on him that anything in the nature of talking was
fraught with the utmost danger, so that he was obliged to swallow the
bitter pill of her utterances. Salvator at length sent her away to get
some iced water, which Antonio had ordered.
Salvator and Antonio convinced themselves that the fellow whom they had
employed had done his business most admirably. Beyond one or two blue
marks, Capuzzi had not suffered the slightest damage, frightful as his
tumble had the appearance of being. Antonio carefully put splints and
bandages on his right foot and leg, so that he could not move; and at
the same time they wrapped him in cloths soaked in iced water, on the
pretext of keeping off fever, so that he shivered as if he were in an
ague.
"My good Signor Antonio," he said, in faint accents, "tell me, is it
all over with me? Am I a dead man?"
"Do not excite yourself, Signor Pasquale," said Antonio.
"As you bore the first application of the bandages so well, and did not
fall into a faint, I hope all danger is over; but the most careful
nursing is absolutely essential. The most important point is that the
surgeon must not let you be out of his sight for a moment."
"Ah, Antonio!" whined the old gentleman, "you know how fond I am of
you--what a high opinion I have of your talent! Don't leave me--give me
your dear hand! That is it! My dear, good son, you won't go away from
me, will you?"
"Although I am no longer a surgeon," said Antonio, "although I have
cast away the abominable slavery of that calling to the four winds of
heaven, I do not mind making an exception in your case, Signor
Pasquale, and I undertake to cure you. The only thing which I ask of
you in return is, that you will give me back your friendship--your
confidence; you have been a little hard towards me."
"Say nothing about that," whispered the old fellow; "do not let us
allude to it, dear Antonio."
"Your niece," said Antonio, "will be half-dead with anxiety at your not
having come home. All things considered, you are wonderfully strong and
well, and we will move you to your own house as soon as it is daylight.
When we have got you there, I will have another look at your bandages,
and see to the bed upon which you are to be laid; and I will tell your
niece all that will be necessary to do in your case, so that you may
very soon be quite better."
The old gentleman heaved a very deep sigh, closed his eyes, and
remained silent for some moments. He then stretched his hand out toward
Antonio, drew him close to him, and said, in a whisper: "Tell me,
dearest Antonio, I am right, am I not, in supposing that all that about
Marianna--my niece--was merely your fun--the sort of jesting which gets
into young fellows' heads?"
"I beg you," said Antonio, "not to think about matters of that sort at
such a time as this. Put them out of your head altogether. It is
certainly true that your niece did attract my eyes a little; but I have
very different matters in my mind at present. And--I must tell you
quite candidly--I am very glad that you sent me and my foolish attempt
to the right about so speedily. I thought I was in love with Marianna,
but it was merely that I saw in her a splendid model for my Magdalene.
I presume that is why I have become completely indifferent to her since
my picture was finished. I have no longer the slightest interest in
her."
"Antonio!" cried the old gentleman; "Antonio, blessed of heaven! you
are my comfort, my help, my consolation! If you are not in love with
Marianna, my troubles are at an end."
"To tell you the truth, Signor Pasquale," said Salvator, "if one did
not know you to be a serious man, of great intelligence, very well
aware what is suitable to his advanced period of life, one would be
disposed to fancy that you were idiot enough to be in love with this
niece of yours (a child of sixteen) yourself."
The old man closed his eyes again, and groaned and lamented over the
terrible sufferings he was enduring, which had returned with double
force.
The morning-red came streaming through the window. Antonio told the old
gentleman it was time to take him to his own house in Strada Ripetta.
He answered with a deep, melancholy sigh. Salvator and Antonio lifted
him out of bed, and wrapped him in a large cloak of Dame Caterina's,
which had been her husband's. The old gentleman implored, for the love
of all the saints, that the shameful ice-cloths which were upon his
bald head should be taken away, and that he should wear his periwig and
plumed hat; also that Antonio should, as far as possible, arrange his
moustaches, so that Marianna should not be too much alarmed by his
appearance. Two bearers, with a litter, were waiting at the door. Dame
Caterina, continually scolding at the old gentleman, and quoting
proverbs plentifully, brought down bedding, in which, carefully packed,
and attended by Salvator and Antonio, he was got home to his own house.
When Marianna saw her uncle in this terrible condition, she gave a loud
cry, and a flood of tears burst from her eyes. Without paying any
attention to her lover, who was present, she took the old man's hands,
pressed them to her lips, and lamented over the sad misfortune which
had befallen him. Such was this good girl's compassion for the old
fellow who tortured her with his insane fondness for her. All the same
the inborn nature of woman within her displayed itself, for a few
significant looks of Salvator's were amply sufficient to let her
understand the whole position of matters. It was only then that she
gave a stolen glance at the happy Antonio, blushing deeply as she did
so, and it was marvellous to see how a somewhat roguish smile
victoriously dispelled her tears. On the whole, Salvator had never
thought that she was so delightful, so wonderfully lovely
(notwithstanding the Magdalene picture) as he now found her actually to
be. And whilst he almost envied Antonio his good fortune, he felt
doubly the necessity of getting the poor girl out of the clutches of
the accursed Capuzzi, at whatever cost.
The latter, welcomed in this charming manner (which he by no means
deserved) by his delightful niece, forgot his troubles; he smiled, and
ogled, working his lips so that his moustaches went up and down; and he
groaned and whined, not so much from pain as from amorousness.
Antonio skilfully prepared the bed for his patient, and when he had
been laid down upon it, tightened the bandages--and did so to such an
extent on the left leg, that the old gentleman had, perforce, to lie as
motionless as a wooden doll. Salvator went away, leaving the lovers to
their happiness.
The old gentleman was lying buried in cushions, and Antonio had,
moreover, so bound a thick cloth soaked in ice-water about his head,
that he could not hear a trace of what the lovers were whispering; so
they now, for the first time, uttered all that was in their hearts, and
vowed eternal fidelity, with tears and the sweetest kisses. The old man
could not possibly have any suspicion, as Marianna, every now and then,
kept asking him if there was anything he wanted, and even permitted him
to press her little white hand to his lips. When it was high day,
Antonio hastened away, according to his own statement, to order what
was further necessary for the patient, but, in reality, to consider how
he might possibly manage to keep him in a still more helpless state, if
he could, so that Salvator and he might reflect upon what steps were to
be taken in the next place.
* * * * * *
A fresh plot which Salvator and Antonio form, and carry out upon Signor
Pasquale Capuzzi and his associates; and the results thereof.
On the following morning Antonio came to Salvator, all vexation and
anger.
"Well, how goes it?" Salvator cried to him. "What are you hanging your
head for, superlatively happy man, who can kiss and caress his darling
every day?"
"Ah, Salvator!" answered Antonio; "it is all over with my happiness.
The devil delights in making me the sport of his tricks. Our plots have
all come to nothing, and we are at open war with the accursed Capuzzi."
"So much the better! so much the better!" said Salvator. "But tell me
what has been happening."
"Just imagine, Salvator," said Antonio. "When, yesterday, I was going
back to Strada Ripetta, after I had been gone about two hours, bringing
all sorts of essences, &c., there I saw the old gentleman standing at
his door, completely dressed. At his back were the Pyramid Doctor, and
the accursed Sbirro, whilst there was some little many-coloured object
running in and out amongst their legs; this, I believe, was that little
abortion of a Pitichinaccio. As soon as the old fellow saw me he
menaced me with his fist, uttered the most gruesome curses and
maledictions, and swore he would have every bone in my body broken if I
dared to come to his door. 'Be off with you to all the devils in Hell,
cursed Beard-scratcher!' he croaked and screamed at me. 'You thought to
make a fool of me, with all sorts of infernal lies and deceptions; you
have striven like the very Satan himself to tempt and mislead my
Marianna. But wait a little. I will spend my last farthing, if
necessary, in getting your life-light snuffed out before you are aware
of it. And as for your fine patron, Signor Salvator--the murderer, the
robber, the cheat-the-gallows!--he shall to hell to join his leader,
Mas' Aniello. Him I'll get kicked out of Rome; that won't give me much
trouble.' Thus did the old man rave; and as the cursed Sbirro, egged on
by the Pyramid Doctor, made as if he would set on me and attack me,
whilst the curious populace began to crowd round, what could I do but
get off as quickly as possible? In my despair I thought I should not
come to you, for I felt certain you would only laugh--and in fact you
hardly can help doing so at this moment."
Indeed, when Antonio ceased speaking, Salvator did laugh heartily.
"Now," he cried, "now the affair is really beginning to become
most delightful. But I shall now tell you, circumstantially, my
dear Antonio, what happened in Capuzzi's house when you had gone
out. Scarcely had you got down-stairs, when Signor Splendiano
Accoramboni--who, heaven knows how, had found out that his bosom
friend Capuzzi had broken his leg in the night--came, in the most
solemn state, to see him, bringing a surgeon with him. Your bandagings,
and your whole treatment of Capuzzi, could not but excite some
suspicion; the surgeon took the splints and bandages off, and of course
found--what we know very well--that there was nothing whatever the
matter with Capuzzi's foot; not so much as a sprained ankle. Very well;
it did not require much acuteness to find out the rest."
"My dearest Maestro," asked Antonio, full of amazement, "how on earth
did you manage to find out all this?--how could you get into Capuzzi's
house, and know all that went on?"
"I told you," said Salvator, "that in Capuzzi's house--and in fact on
the same storey with him--there lives an acquaintance of Dame
Caterina's. This acquaintance, the widow of a wine-merchant, has a
daughter whom my little Margerita often goes to see. Girls have a
special faculty for finding out others like themselves, and in this way
Rosa (the wine-merchant's widow's daughter) and Margerita soon
discovered a little peep-hole in the dining-room, which is the next
room to a dark chamber which opens into Marianna's room. The
whisperings of the girls by no means escaped Marianna's notice, neither
did the peephole; so that the way to mutual communications was marked
out, and taken advantage of. When the old gentleman is having his
afternoon nap, the girls have a right good chatter to their heart's
content. You have no doubt noticed that little Margerita (her mother's
favourite, and mine) is by no means so grave and reserved as her elder
sister Anna, but a droll, merry creature. Without having exactly told
her about your love affair, I have asked her to get Marianna to let her
know all that goes on in the house. In this she has proved very clever;
and if I, just now, laughed a little at your pain and despair, it was
because I have it in my power to prove to you that your affairs have
just, for the first time, got into an exceedingly favourable groove. I
have a whole sackful of delightful news for you."
"Salvator!" cried Antonio, his eyes bright with joy, "what hopes dawn
upon me! Blessings on the peephole in the dining-room. I can write to
Marianna--Margerita will take the note with her."
"No, no, Antonio," said Salvator, "not quite that; Margerita shall
do us good service without being exactly your go-between. Besides,
chance--which often plays strange tricks--might place your love-prattle
in the hands of old Capuzzi, and bring a thousand new troubles upon
Marianna's head, just at the moment when she is on the point of getting
the amorous old goose properly and completely under her little satin
shoe. For just listen how affairs are progressing. The style in which
Marianna received him when he was taken home has turned him round
completely. He believes no less a thing than that Marianna has ceased
to care for you, but has given one half of her heart to him, so that
all he has to do is to get hold of the other half. Since she has
imbibed the poison of your kisses, she has all at once become some
three years cleverer and more experienced. She has not only convinced
the old gentleman that she had nothing to do with our escapade, but
that she abhors the idea of it, and would repel with the deepest scorn
any plot which should have the object of bringing you into her
proximity. In the excess of his delight at this, he vowed that if there
should be anything he could do to please her, he would set about it in
a moment; she had but to give her wish a name. On this she very quietly
said what she would like would be that her _zio carissima_ should take
her to the theatre outside the Porto del Popolo, to see Signor Formica.
The old fellow was somewhat startled by this, and consulted with the
Pyramid Doctor and Pitichinaccio; and the result is that Signor
Pasquale and Signor Splendiano are actually going to take Marianna to
the said theatre to-morrow. Pitichinaccio is to be dressed as a
waiting-maid; but he only consented to this on condition that Pasquale
should give him a periwig, over and above the plush doublet, and that
he and the Pyramid Doctor should relieve each other, from time to time,
of the task of carrying him home at night. This has been all agreed
upon; and this remarkable three-bladed-clover will really go, to-morrow
evening, with beautiful Marianna, to see Signor Formica, at the theatre
outside the Porto del Popolo."
It is necessary now to say something as to this theatre, and Signor
Formica himself.
Nothing can be sadder than when, at carnival time in Rome, the
_impressarii_ have been unfortunate in their composers--when the
_primo tenore_ of the Argentina has left his voice on the road--when
the _primo uomo da donna_ in the Teatro Valle is down with the
influenza--in short, when the chief pleasures to which the Romans have
been looking forward have proved disappointments, and Giovedi Grasso
has been shorn, at one fell swoop, of all the hoped-for flowers which
were expected to come at that time into blossom. Immediately alter a
melancholy carnival of this description (in fact, the fasts were
scarcely over) a certain Nicolo Musso opened a theatre outside the
Porto del Popolo, limiting himself to announcing the performance of
minor, improvised _buffonades_. His advertisement was couched in a
clever and witty style of wording, and from it the Romans formed in
advance a favourable opinion of Musso's undertaking, and would have
done so even had they not, in the unsatisfied state of their dramatic
appetites, been eager to snatch at anything of the kind that was
offered to them. The arrangements of the theatre--or rather of the
little booth--could not be said to give evidence of any very
flourishing state of finances on the manager's part. There was no
orchestra; there were no boxes. There was a sort of gallery at the back
of the audience part of the house, adorned with the arms of the
Colonnas--a mark that the Conte Colonna had taken Murso and his theatre
under his special protection. The stage was a raised platform covered
with carpets, and surrounded with gay-coloured paper-hangings which had
to serve for forests, interiors, or streets, according to the
requirements of the drama. As, moreover, the audience had to be content
with hard, uncomfortable wooden benches to sit upon, it is not matter
for wonder that the first set of spectators expressed themselves pretty
strongly on the subject of the audacity of Signor Musso in giving the
name of a theatre to this boarded booth. But scarcely had the two first
actors who appeared spoken a few words, when the audience became
attentive. As the piece went on, the attention became applause, the
applause astonishment, and the astonishment enthusiasm, which expressed
itself in the most prolonged and stormy laughter, hand-clapping, and
cries of bravo!
And, in truth, nothing more perfect could have been seen than those
improvised representations of Nicolo Musso's which sparkled with wit,
fun, and _esprit_, castigating the follies of the day with unsparing
lash. The performers all rendered their parts with incomparable
distinctiveness of character, but the "Pasquarello" more particularly
carried the house away with him bodily, by his inimitable play of
gesture, and a talent for imitating well-known personages, in voice,
walk, and manner, by his inexhaustible drollery, and the extraordinary
originality of the ideas which struck him. This actor, who called
himself Signor Formica, seemed to be inspired by a very remarkable and
unusual spirit; often, in his tone and manner, there would be a
something so strange that the audience, while in the middle of a burst
of the heartiest laughter, would suddenly feel a species of cold
shiver. Almost on a par with him, and a worthy compeer, was the "Dr.
Graziano" of the troupe, who had a play of feature, a voice, a power of
saying the most delightful things in, apparently, the most foolish
manner, to which nothing in the world could be likened. This "Doctor
Graziano" was an old Bolognese, of the name of Maria Aglia. As a matter
of course, all the fashionable world of Rome soon came thronging to the
little theatre outside the Porto del Popolo. The name of Formica was on
everybody's lips; and in the streets as in the theatre, all voices were
crying, with the utmost enthusiasm, "Oh, Formica! Formica benedetto!
Oh, Formicisimo!" He was looked upon as a supernatural being; and many
an old woman, ashake with laughter in the theatre, would (if anybody
ventured to criticise Formica's action in the slightest degree) turn
grave, and say, with the utmost seriousness and solemnity--
"Scherza coi fanti e lascia star santi."
This was because, out of the theatre, Formica was an unfathomable
mystery. No one ever saw him anywhere, and every attempt to come upon
his traces was vain. Nothing as to where he lived could be got out of
Musso.
Such was the theatre to which Marianna wished to go.
"Let us fly straight at our enemies' throats," Salvator said; "the walk
home from the theatre to the town offers us a most admirable
opportunity."
He then communicated a plan to Antonio, which seemed very risky and
daring, but which the latter adopted with delight, thinking it would
enable him to rescue his Marianna from the abominable Capuzzi;
moreover, it pleased him well that Salvator made one great feature of
it the punishing of the Pyramid Doctor.
When evening came, Salvator and Antonio each took a guitar, went to
Strada Ripetta, and (by way of annoying old Capuzzi) treated the lovely
Marianna to the most exquisite _serenata_ imaginable. For Salvator
played and sang like a master, and Antonio had a lovely tenor voice,
and was almost an Odoardo Ceccarelli. Signor Pasquale of course came
out on to the balcony, and scolded down at the singers, ordering them
to hold their peace; but the neighbours, whom the beautiful music had
brought to their windows, cried out to him, asking him whether, as he
and his friends were in the habit of howling and screaming like all the
demons in hell, he wouldn't suffer such a thing as a little _good_
music in the street? Let him be off into the house, they said, and stop
his ears, if he didn't want to hear the beautiful singing. Thus Signor
Pasquale was obliged, to his torture, to endure Salvator and Antonio's
singing, all night long--songs which at times consisted of the sweetest
words of love, and at others ridiculed the folly of amorous old men.
They distinctly saw Marianna at the window, and heard Pasquale adjuring
her, in the most honeyed terms, not to expose herself to the night air.
The next evening there passed along the street towards the Porto del
Popolo the strangest group of persons ever seen. They attracted all
eyes, and people asked each other if some strange survival of the
Carnival had preserved two or three mad maskers. Signor Pasquale
Capuzzi, in his many-coloured, well-brushed Spanish suit, a new yellow
feather in his steeple-crowned hat, tightly belted and buckled, all
tenderness and grace, tripping along on shoes too tight for him, as if
treading on eggs, conducted on his arm the lovely Marianna, whose
pretty figure, and still more beautiful face, could not be seen, in
consequence of the extraordinary manner in which she was wimpled and
wrapped up in a cloak and hood. On her other side tripped along Signor
Splendiano Accoramboni in his enormous wig, which covered the whole of
his back, so that, when seen from behind, he looked like some enormous
head moving along on two diminutive legs. Close behind Marianna, almost
clinging on to her, came, in crab-like fashion, the little hideosity of
a Pitichinaccio, in flame-coloured female dress, with his hair
bedecked, in the most repulsive style, with flowers of all the colours
of the rainbow.
On this particular evening Signor Formica even surpassed himself;
and--what he had never done before--he introduced little snatches of
songs, imitating various well-known singers. In old Capuzzi this awoke
all the old delight in theatrical matters which in former days had been
a regular mania with him. He kissed Marianna's hands over and over
again, and vowed that he certainly would bring her to Nicolo Musso's
theatre every night without fail. He extolled Signor Formica to the
very skies, and joined most heartily in the uproarious applause of the
rest of the audience. Signor Splendiano was less content, and
repeatedly begged Signor Capuzzi and Marianna not to laugh so very
immoderately. He named, in one breadth, some twenty maladies which were
liable to be brought on by over-agitation of the diaphragm; but neither
the one nor the other gave themselves any trouble on the subject.
Pitichinaccio was thoroughly unhappy. He had been obliged to sit just
behind the Pyramid Doctor, who so overshadowed him with his enormous
wig that he could not see the smallest peep of the stage, nor of the
characters upon it; moreover, he was tortured by two facetious women
who were sitting beside him, and who kept on calling him "Charming,
pretty signora," and asking him whether he was married, for all he was
so young, and had nice little children, who must be the dearest little
things imaginable, &c., &c. Drops of cold perspiration stood on the
poor little creature's brow; he whimpered and whined, and cursed the
hour when he was born.
When the acting was over, Signor Pasquale waited till every one had
left the house; and as the last of the lamps was being put out, Signor
Splendiano lighted at it the stump of a wax candle, and they set forth
on their homeward way. Pitichinaccio whined and cried; Capuzzi, to his
torment, had to take him on his left arm, having Marianna on his right;
before them went Doctor Splendiano with his candle-stump, whose feeble
rays made the darkness of the night seem deeper.
While they were still some distance from the Porto del Popolo, they
found themselves suddenly surrounded by several tall figures, thickly
wrapped in cloaks. The Doctor's candle was instantly snatched from
his hand, and went out on the ground. Capuzzi and the Doctor stood
speechless and amazed. Then there fell (it was not clear from whence)
a faint reddish glimmer upon the cloaked figures, and four pale
death's-heads were seen staring at the Pyramid Doctor, with hollow,
fearful eyes. "Woe! woe! woe unto thee, Splendiano Accoramboni!" howled
the terrible spectres, in deep, hollow tones. Then one of them wailed
out, "Knowest thou me? knowest thou me, Splendiano? I am Cordier, the
French painter, buried last week; sent under-ground by thee, with thy
drugs!" Then the second: "Knowest thou _me_, Splendiano? I am Kueffner,
the German painter, whom thou didst poison with thy hellish
electuaries!" Then the third: "Knowest thou _me_, Splendiano? I am
Liers, the Fleming, whom thou didst murder with thy pills, cheating his
brother out of his pictures!" Then the fourth: "Knowest thou _me_,
Splendiano? I am Ghigi, the Neapolitan painter, whom thou didst slay
with thy powders!" Finally, all the four cried out in quartet, "Woe!
woe to thee, Splendiano Accoramboni, accursed Pyramid Doctor! Thou must
away!--away with us!--down, down under the earth! On!--on with thee!
Halloh!--halloh!" Therewith they seized the luckless Doctor, heaved him
up, and disappeared with him like the storm-wind.
Sorely as terror was like to overcome Pasquale, he collected himself,
and took heart of grace with wonderful courage, when he saw that this
affair only concerned his friend Accoramboni. Pitichinaccio had put his
head, flowers and all, under Pasquale's cloak, and was clinging so
tightly about his neck that it was impossible to shake him off.
"Recover yourself," said Capuzzi to Marianna, when nothing more was to
be seen of the spectres or of the Pyramid Doctor. "Recover yourself!
Come to me, my sweet, darling little dove! My good friend Splendiano is
gone. May Saint Bernard, who was a doctor himself, stand by him and
defend him, if those revengeful painters, whom he sent to that Pyramid
of his rather before their time, are going to twist his windpipe. Ah!
who will take the bass parts in my canzonet now, I should like to know?
And this creature here, Pitichinaccio, is squeezing my throat to that
extent that, what with that, and what with the fright at seeing
Splendiano spirited away, I dare say it'll be three months good before
I can get out a single note in tune! Don't you be frightened, my own
sweetest Marianna!--it is all over."
Marianna declared that she had quite recovered from the fright, and
only begged him to let her walk by herself to enable him to get quit of
his troublesome lap-child; but he only held her the tighter, and vowed
that no consideration in the world would induce him to allow her to
venture a single step by herself in the terrible darkness.
Just then, as Capuzzi was going to step courageously forward, there
suddenly rose before him, as if from the depths of the earth, four
terrible-looking figures of devils, in short cloaks of glittering
red, who glared at him with fearful eyes, and began making a
horrible croaking and squeaking. "Hup! hup!" they cried. "Pasquale
Capuzzi!--idiotic fool!--amorous old donkey! We are comrades of yours;
we are love-devils; and we have come to carry you down to the hottest
hell, you and your bosom-friend there, Pitichinaccio!" Thus screaming,
the devils fell upon Capuzzi, and he, with Pitichinaccio, went down,
both of them raising piercing yells of distress like those of a whole
herd of beaten donkeys.
Marianna had forcibly torn herself away from the old fellow, and sprung
to one side, where one of the devils folded her softly in his arms, and
said, in a sweet voice of affection: "Oh, Marianna! my own Marianna! it
has all come right at last. My friends are taking the old man a long
distance off, while we find some place of safety to fly to."
"My own Antonio!" Marianna whispered softly.
Suddenly a bright glare of torches lightened up the place, and Antonio
felt himself stabbed on the shoulder-blade. Quick as lightning he
turned round, drew his sword, and attacked the fellow, who was aiming a
second stab with his stiletto. He saw that his three friends were
defending themselves against a much stronger force of Sbirri. He
managed to beat off the man who was attacking him, and to join his
friends; but, bravely as they fought, the struggle was too unequal, and
the Sbirri must unfailingly have had the best of it, had not two men
suddenly burst, with loud shouts, into the ranks of the young fellows,
one of whom immediately floored the Sbirro who was taxing Antonio the
hardest.
The fight was now speedily decided to the disadvantage of the Sbirri,
and those of them who were not on the ground wounded, fled with loud
cries towards the Porto del Popolo.
Salvator Rosa--for it was no other who had hastened to Antonio's help,
and struck down the Sbirro--was for starting off without more ado, with
Antonio and the young painters who were in the devils' dresses, after
the Sbirri to town.
Maria Agli, who had come with him, and, notwithstanding his years, had
set to with the Sbirri like the others, thought this was not advisable,
as the guard at the Porto del Popolo, informed of the affair, would of
course arrest them all. So they betook themselves to Nicolo Musso, who
received them gladly in his small abode not far from the theatre. The
painters took off their devils' masks and their cloaks rubbed with
phosphorus; and Antonio--who, save for the unimportant prick in his
shoulder, was not at all hurt--brought his surgical skill into play,
all the others having wounds, though none of any importance.
The plot, so daringly and skilfully contrived, would have succeeded had
not Salvator and Antonio left one person out of account; and that
person ruined it all. Michele, the ex-Bravo and Sbirro, who lived
downstairs in Capuzzi's house, and was a kind of servant to him, had,
by his wish, gone behind him to the theatre, but at some distance, as
the old man was ashamed of his tattered and scoundrelly appearance. In
the same way, Michele had followed on the homeward way; so that, when
the spectres appeared, Michele--who really did not fear death or
devil--smelt a rat, ran, in the darkness, straight away to the Porto
del Popolo, gave the alarm, and came back with the Sbirri, who, as we
know, arrived just at the moment when the devils fell upon Signor
Pasquale, and were going to take him away, as the dead men had taken
the Pyramid Doctor.
Bat in the thick of the fight, one of the young painters had distinctly
seen a fellow hurrying away towards the gate with Marianna, in a
fainting state, in his arms, followed by Pasquale, who was rushing
along at an incredible rate, as if his veins were running quicksilver.
There was, moreover, some glimmering object visible by the torch-light
hanging on to his cloak, and whining, probably Pitichinaccio.
Next morning Doctor Splendiano was discovered at the Pyramid of
Cestius, rolled up in a ball and immersed in his periwig, fast asleep,
as though in a warm, soft nest. When they woke him, he talked
incoherently, and it was hard to convince him that he was still in this
visible life and, moreover, in Rome. When, at length, he was taken to
his house, he thanked the Virgin and all the Saints for his rescue,
threw all his tinctures, essences, electuaries, and powders out of
window, made a bonfire of his recipes, and for the future healed his
patients in no other manner than by laying his hands upon them and
stroking them, as a celebrated physician used to do before him (who was
a Saint into the bargain, but whose name I cannot think of at the
moment), with much success, for his patients died as well as the
other's, and before their deaths saw heaven open, and anything that the
Saint pleased.
"I do not know," said Antonio, next day, to Salvator, "what fury has
blazed up within me since some of my blood was spilt. Death and
destruction to the miserable, ignoble Capuzzi! Do you know, Salvator,
that I have made up my mind to get into his house by force; and if he
makes any resistance, I will run him through, and carry Marianna off."
"Glorious idea!" exclaimed Salvator. "A truly happy inspiration. I have
no doubt you have also devised the means of carrying Marianna through
the air to the Piazza di Spagna, so that you may reach that place of
sanctuary before they have arrested you and hanged you! No, no, dear
Antonio, there is nothing to be done in this affair by violence, and
you may be quite certain that Signor Capuzzi will be too well prepared
for anything in the shape of an open attack. Besides this, our escapade
has attracted a great deal of attention; and more than that, the
laughable style in which we set about our little piece of entertainment
with Splendiano and Capuzzi has had the effect of waking the police up
from their gentle slumbers, so that they will now be on the watch for
us, as far as their feeble powers enable them. No, Antonio, we must
resort to stratagem: '_Con arte e con inganno si vive mezzo l'anno; con
inganno e con arte si vive l'altro parte._' That is what Dame Caterina
says, and she is quite right. I can't help laughing at our having set
to work just as if we were innocent boys; but it is my fault, chiefly,
seeing that I have the advantage of you in years. Tell me, Antonio,
if our plot had succeeded, and you had really carried Marianna off,
where should you have gone with her?--where could you have kept her
hidden?--how could you have got married by the priest so speedily that
the old man should not have managed to interfere? As it is, in a very
few days you shall actually carry her off. I have enlisted the aid of
Nicolo Musso and Formica, and in conjunction with them thought out a
plan which scarcely can break down. Comfort yourself, therefore, Signor
Formica is going to help you."
"Signor Formica!" repeated Antonio, in an indifferent, almost
contemptuous tone; "and pray how can that 'funny-man' help me?"
"Ho, ho!" cried Salvator, "I must beg you to treat Signor Formica with
a proper amount of respect. Don't you know that he is a kind of wizard,
and has all sorts of wondrous secret arts at his command? I tell you,
Signor Formica is going to help you. And old Maria Agli, our great and
grand 'Doctor Graziano,' of Bologna, has joined in our plot, and is
going to play a most important part in it. You shall carry your
Marianna off from Musso's theatre."
"Salvator," said Antonio, "you are buoying me up with vain hopes. You
have said, yourself, that Capuzzi will be thoroughly on his guard
against any more open attacks; so, after what has happened to him
already, how can he possibly be induced to go to Musso's theatre
another time?"
"It is not such a difficult matter as you suppose," answered Salvator,
"to get him to go back there again; the difficulty will be to induce
him to go without his companions, and to get him on to the stage. But
however that may be, you must now arrange matters with Marianna so as
to be ready to fly from Rome whenever the favourable moment arrives.
You will have to go to Florence. Your art will be an introduction to
you there to begin with, and I will take care that you shall not want
for friends, or for valuable support and assistance. We shall have to
rest on our oars for a few days, and then we shall see what more is to
be done. Keep up your courage. Formica will help."
A Fresh Misfortune Comes Upon Signor Pasquale Capuzzi. Antonio
Scacciati Carries Out A Plot At Musso's Theatre, And Flies To
Florence.
Signor Pasquale knew but too well who were the authors of the trick
played upon him and the poor Pyramid Doctor near the Porto del Popolo;
and we can imagine his rage with Antonio and with Salvator Rosa, whom
he rightly considered to be the prime mover in the matter. He did his
utmost to console Marianna, who was quite ill, from the fright--as she
put it--but really from disappointment and vexation at the accursed
Michele's having carried her off, with his Sbirri, from Antonio.
Meanwhile, Margarita industriously brought her tidings of her lover,
and she based all her hopes and expectations upon the enterprising
Salvator. She waited most impatiently from day to day for anything in
the shape of fresh events, and vented her vexation upon the old
gentleman by a thousand teasings and naggings, which rendered him
humble and submissive in his foolish amourishness, but had not the
effect of in any degree casting out the love-devil by which he was
possessed. When Marianna had poured out upon his devoted head a full
measure of all the evil caprices of a selfish girl, she had only to
suffer him to press his withered lips a single time upon her little
hand, and he would vow, in the excess of his delight, that he would
never leave off kissing the Pope's slipper till he had obtained his
dispensation to marry his niece, quintessence as she was of all beauty
and loveliness. Marianna was careful to do nothing to disturb this
condition of delight, for those rays of hope of her uncle's made her
own to shine brighter--her hopes of being all the nearer escaping him,
the more firmly he believed himself to be united to her by bonds which
were indissoluble.
Some time had elapsed when, one day, Michele came stumping upstairs and
announced to his master (who opened the door after a good deal of
knocking), with much prolixity, that there was a gentleman below who
insisted, most urgently, on speaking with Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, who,
he was aware, lived in that house.
"Oh, all ye heavenly hosts!" cried the old gentleman, in a rage,
"doesn't this lubber know as well as possible that I never speak with
strangers in the house!"
But Michele said the gentleman was very well-looking, rather elderly,
and spoke exceedingly nicely, saying his name was Nicolo Musso.
"Nicolo Musso!" said Capuzzi, thoughtfully to himself; "Nicolo Musso,
who has the theatre outside the Porta del Popolo! What can he want with
me?" He carefully closed and bolted the door, and went down with
Michele to talk with Nicolo in the street.
"My dear Signor Pasquale," said Nicolo, greeting him with an easy
courtesy, "how very much delighted I am that you honour me with
your acquaintance! How many thanks I owe you! Since the Romans saw
_you_--the man of the most acknowledged taste, of the most universal
knowledge, the virtuoso in art--in my theatre, my reputation, and my
receipts, have been doubled. All the more does it pain me that some
wicked, malicious fellows should have made a murderous attack upon you
and your party as you were going home from my theatre at night. For the
love of all the Saints, Signor Pasquale, do not form a prejudice
against me and my theatre on account of an affair of this sort, which
could scarcely have been anticipated. Do not deprive me of your
patronage."
"My good Signor Nicolo," said Capuzzi, flattered, "let me assure you
that I never, anywhere, found more pleasure than in your theatre.
Your Formica, your Agli, are actors, whose equals have still to
be discovered; but the alarm which brought my friend Splendiano
Accoramboni--and indeed myself as well--nearly to death's door, was too
severe. It has closed to me for ever, not your theatre, but the road to
it. Open your theatre in the Piazza del Popolo, or in Strada Babuina,
or Strada Ripetta, and I shall never miss a single evening; but no
power on earth would induce me to set foot outside the Porto del Popolo
at night."
Nicolo sighed as if possessed by profound sorrow. "That hits me hard,"
he said; "harder than you perhaps may suppose, Signor Pasquale. I had
based all my hopes upon you. In fact, I came to implore your
assistance."
"My assistance!" echoed the old gentleman; "my assistance! In what way
could that be of any use to you, Signor Nicolo?"
"My dear Signor Pasquale," answered Nicolo, passing his handkerchief
over his eyes as if wiping away a tear or two, "you will have observed
that my actors occasionally introduce a little aria or so here and
there; and my idea was to carry that further gradually; bring a small
orchestra together, and finally evade prohibitions so far as to start
an opera. You, Signor Capuzzi, are the first composer in all Italy, and
it is only the incredible frivolity of the Romans, and the envy of the
_Maestri_, that are to blame for the circumstance that anything except
your compositions is to be heard on the stage. Signor Pasquale, I came
to beg you, on my knees, to allow me to represent your immortal works
in my theatre."
"My good Signor Nicolo!" cried the old fellow, with bright sunshine in
his face, "why are we talking here in the public street? Will you be
kind enough to climb up a steep flight of stairs, and come with me into
my humble dwelling?"
As soon as he got into the room with Nicolo, he hauled out a great
packet of dusty music-manuscript, opened it up, turned pages over, and
began that frightful yelling and screeching which he called "singing."
Nicolo demeaned himself like one enraptured. He sighed, he groaned; he
cried "bravo!" from time to time, and "Bravissimo! Benedetto Capuzzi!"
At length, as if in an excess of blissful enthusiasm, he fell at the
old man's feet, and clasped his knees, hugging them so very tightly,
however, that Capuzzi gave a great bound to try and shake him off,
screamed with the pain, and cried out: "All the Saints! let me go,
Signor Nicolo! you'll be the death of me!"
"No!" cried Nicolo. "No, Signor Pasquale! I will not rise from this
spot till you promise to let me have that heavenly aria which you have
just rendered so magnificently, so that Formica may sing it two nights
hence on my stage."
"You are a person of some taste," sighed Pasquale; "a man of insight;
to whom, rather than to you, should I intrust my compositions? You
shall take all my arias with you (Oh! oh! do let me go!) but, oh
heavens! I shall not hear them--my heavenly masterpieces! (Oh, oh! let
go my legs, Signor Nicolo!)"
"No!" cried Nicolo, still on his knees, and firmly grasping the old
man's spindle-shanks like a vice. "No, Signor Pasquale! I will not let
you go till you give me your word that you will come to my theatre the
evening after to-morrow. Have no fear of being attacked again. You may
be certain that, when the Romans have heard those arias of yours, they
will carry you home triumphantly in a torchlight procession. But even
if they do not, I and my trusty comrades will arm, and escort you
safely home."
"You and your comrades will escort me home, will you?" Pasquale
inquired; "how many of them might there be?"
"Eight or ten people will be at your disposal, Signor Pasquale. Make up
your mind; decide upon coming, and yield to my earnest prayers."
"Formica," lisped Pasquale, "has a capital voice; how he _would_ sing
my arias!"
"Decide on it," cried Nicolo once more, grasping the old man's legs
tighter than ever.
"You promise me," said Pasquale; "you undertake to be responsible that
I get safe home without being set upon?"
"Upon my life and honour," said Nicolo, giving the legs an extra grip.
"Done!" cried the old gentleman. "The evening after to-morrow I shall
be at your theatre."
Nicolo jumped up, and pressed the old man to his heart with such
violence that he coughed and gasped for breath.
At this juncture Marianna came in. Pasquale tried to restrain her by
casting a grim look at her, but in vain. She went straight to Musso,
and said angrily: "It is of no use your trying to entice my dear uncle
to go to your theatre again. Remember that the horrible trick played
upon me by abandoned villains who have a plot against me nearly cost my
darling uncle and his worthy friend Splendiano their lives, not to
mention myself. Never will I allow him to run such a risk again. Cease
your attempts, Nicolo. Dearest uncle! you will stay quietly at home,
will you not, and never venture outside the Porto del Popolo again in
the treacherous night, which is no one's friend?"
This came upon Signor Pasquale like a clap of thunder. He gazed at his
niece with eyes widely opened; and presently addressed her in the
sweetest language, explaining to her at much length that Signor Nicolo
had taken the responsibility of making such arrangements that there
should be no possible risk of danger on the homeward way.
"For all that," answered Marianna, "my opinion remains the same, and I
implore you most earnestly, dearest uncle, not to go. Excuse me, Signor
Nicolo, for speaking clearly in your presence, and uttering the dark
presentiment which I so strongly feel. I know that Salvator Rosa is a
friend of yours, and I have no doubt so is Antonio Scacciati. How if
you were in collusion with my enemies? How if you are tempting my uncle
(who, I know, will not go to your theatre unless I am with him) only to
have a surer opportunity of carrying out some fresh plot against him?"
"What an idea!" cried Nicolo, as if horrified. "What a terrible
suspicion to entertain, Signora! Have you had such an evil experience
of me in the past? Is my reputation such that you believe me capable of
such a frightful piece of treachery? But if you _do_ think so badly of
me--if you have no confidence in the help I have promised--you can
bring Michele (who was so useful in rescuing you on the former
occasion), and let him bring a good force of Sbirri, who could be
waiting for you outside; as you could scarcely expect _me_ to fill my
house with Sbirri."
Marianna, looking him steadfastly in the eyes, said earnestly: "Since
you suggest that, I see that you mean honourably, Signor Nicolo, and
that my evil suspicions of you were unfounded. Pray forgive my
thoughtless words. Yet I cannot overcome my anxiety, and my fear for my
dearest uncle, and I again beg him not to venture upon this dangerous
expedition."
Signor Pasquale had listened to the conversation with strange looks,
which clearly testified to the contest within him. He could now
restrain himself no longer; he fell on his knees before Marianna,
seized her hands, kissed them, covered them with tears which streamed
from his eyes, and cried, as if beside himself: "Heavenly and adored
Marianna! the fire in my heart breaks forth into flame! Ah! this
anxiety, this fear on my account; what are they but the sweetest
admissions of your love for me?" He entreated her not to allow herself
to be alarmed in the very slightest degree, but to hear, on the stage,
the most lovely of the arias which the divinest of composers ever had
written.
Nicolo, too, continued the most pathetic entreaties, until Marianna
declared she was persuaded, and promised to lay aside all fear, and go
with her dear uncle to the theatre outside the Porto del Popolo.
Signor Pasquale was in the seventh heaven of bliss. He had the full
conviction that Marianna loved him, and he was going to hear his own
music on the stage, and gather the laurels which he had so long been
striving for in vain. He was on the very point of finding his fondest
dreams realized, and he wanted his light to shine in all its glory on
his faithful friends. His idea, therefore, was that Signor Splendiano
and little Pitichinaccio should go with him, just as they had done on
the former occasion.
But in addition to the spectres who had carried him off, all manner of
direful apparitions had haunted Signor Splendiano on the night when he
slept in his periwig near the Pyramid of Cestius. The whole
burying-ground seemed to have come to life, and hundreds of the dead
had stretched their bony arms out at him, complaining loudly concerning
his essences and electuaries, the tortures of which were not abated
even in the tomb. Hence the Pyramid Doctor, though he could not
contradict Signor Pasquale when he held that the whole thing was only a
trick performed by a parcel of wicked young men, continued to be in a
melancholy mood; and though, formerly, he was not greatly prone to
anything in the nature of superstition, he now saw spectres everywhere,
and was sorely plagued with presentiments and evil dreams.
As for Pitichinaccio, nothing would persuade him that those devils who
fell upon him and Signor Pasquale were not real and veritable demons
from the flames of hell, and he screamed aloud whenever any one so much
as alluded to that terrible night. All Pasquale's assurances that it
was only Antonio Scacciati and Salvator Rosa who were behind those
devil's masks were unavailing; for Pitichinaccio vowed, with many
tears, that, notwithstanding his terror, he distinctly recognized the
fiend Fanfarell, by his voice and appearance, and that said Fanfarell
had beaten his stomach black and blue.
It may be imagined what trouble Signor Pasquale had to persuade the
Pyramid Doctor and Pitichinaccio to go with him again to Musso's
theatre. Splendiano did not agree to do so until he had succeeded in
getting from a monk of the Order of St. Bernard a consecrated bag of
musk (the smell whereof neither dead men nor devils can abide), with
which he was proof against all attacks. Pitichinaccio could not resist
the promise of a box of grapes in sugar, but Signor Pasquale had to
expressly agree that he was not to wear female attire (which, he
thought, was what had brought the devils upon him), but go in his
Abbate's costume.
What Salvator had dreaded seemed thus to be about to insist on
happening, although, as he declared, his whole plot depended for
success upon Signor Pasquale and Marianna going by themselves, without
the faithful companions, to Musso's theatre.
Both he and Antonio cudgelled their brains how to keep Splendiano and
Pitichinaccio away; but there was not time enough to carry out any plan
having that for its aim, as the great stroke itself had to be struck on
the evening of the next day. But heaven--which often employs the oddest
tools in the punishment of foolish folk--interposed, in this instance,
in favour of the lovers, and so guided Michele that he gave the rein to
his natural dunderheadedness, and by that means brought about what the
skill of Salvator and Antonio was powerless to accomplish.
On that self-same night there suddenly arose, in Strada Ripetta before
Pasquale's house, such a terrible swearing, shouting, and quarrelling
that all the neighbours started from their sleep, and the Sbirri (who
had been after a murderer who took sanctuary in the Piazza di Spagna),
supposing there was another murder going on, came hurrying up with
their torches. When they, and a crowd of people attracted by the noise
who came with them, arrived on the scene of the supposed murder, what
was seen was poor little Pitichinaccio lying on the ground as if dead;
Michele belabouring the Pyramid Doctor with a frightful cudgel, and the
said Doctor in the act of falling down; whilst Signor Pasquale, picking
himself up with difficulty, drew his sword, and began furiously lunging
at Michele. All round lay fragments of shattered guitars. Several
people stopped the old gentleman's arm, or he would infallibly have run
Michele through the body. The latter (who, now that the torches had
come, saw, for the first time, who it was that he had to do with),
stood like a statue, with eyes staring out of his head. Presently He
emitted a terrific yell, tore his hair, and implored forgiveness and
mercy. Neither the Pyramid Doctor nor Pitichinaccio were seriously
hurt, but they were so stiff, and so black and blue, that they could
not move a muscle, and had to be carried home.
Signor Pasquale had brought this trouble upon his own pate. We are
aware that Salvator and Antonio had favoured Marianna with the most
beautiful night-music imaginable, but I have forgotten to add that they
went on repeating it on succeeding nights, tremendously infuriating
Signor Pasquale; his anger was held in check by the neighbours, and he
was silly enough to apply to the authorities to prevent the two
painters from singing in Strada Ripetta. The authorities considered it
an unheard of thing in Rome to forbid anybody singing whenever he
chose, and said it was absurd to demand it. On this Signor Pasquale
determined to put an end to the thing himself, and promised Michele a
good sum of money if he would fall upon the singers and give them a
good cudgelling on the first opportunity. Michele at once provided
himself with a big stick, and kept watch every night behind the door.
However, it happened that Salvator and Antonio thought it advisable to
discontinue the night-music in Strada Ripetta on the nights immediately
preceding the execution of their plot, so that nothing might suggest
ideas of his enemies to the old man. And Marianna innocently remarked
that, much as she hated Salvator and Antonio, she would have been very
glad to hear their singing, for their music, soaring on the breeze in
the night, surpassed everything.
Pasquale took mental note of this, and, as an exquisite piece of
gallantry, determined to delight and surprise his beloved with a
serenata, composed by himself, and carefully rehearsed with his
companions. So the very night before the projected visit to the theatre
he slipped secretly out and fetched his two associates, who were
prepared beforehand. But no sooner had they struck the first chords on
their guitars than Michele (whom his master had unfortunately forgotten
to warn of what was going to happen), in high glee at the near prospect
of earning the promised reward, burst out at the door, and set to work
unmercifully becudgelling the musicians. What happened afterwards we
know. Of course it was out of the question that either Splendiano or
Pitichinaccio could go with Pasquale to the theatre, as they were lying
in their beds covered all over with sticking-plaster. But Signor
Pasquale could not refrain from going himself, although his shoulders
and back smarted not a little from the licking he had had; every note
of his aria was a rope dragging him there irresistibly.
"Now that the obstacle which we thought insurmountable has cleared
itself out of the way of its own accord," said Salvator to Antonio,
"everything depends upon your adroitness in not letting slip, when it
comes, the proper moment for carrying your Marianna off from Nicolo's
theatre. But you will not fail; and I greet you already as the
bridegroom of Capuzzi's beautiful niece, who will be your wife in a few
days. I wish you every happiness, Antonio, although it goes to my very
marrow when I think of your marriage."
"What do you mean, Salvator?" asked Antonio.
"Call it whim, or fanciful idea, Antonio," he answered; "the long and
the short of it is, I love women; but every one of them, even her whom
I am madly in love with, for whom I would gladly die, affects my mind
with an apprehension which raises in me the most inexplicable and
mysterious shudder the moment I think of a union with her such as
marriage would be. The unfathomable element in woman's nature mockingly
sets all the weapons of our sex at complete defiance. She whom we
believe to have devoted herself to us with her whole being--to have
opened to us the innermost recesses of her nature--is the first to
deceive us, and with the sweetest kisses we imbibe the most destroying
poison."
"And my Marianna?" asked Antonio, aghast.
"Pardon me, Antonio," answered Salvator; "even your Marianna, who is
sweetness and delightsomeness personified, has given me a fresh proof
how constantly we are menaced by the mysterious nature of woman.
Remember how that innocent, inexperienced child behaved when we took
her uncle home to her; how, at one glance of mine, she comprehended the
whole situation, and played her part, as you said yourself, with the
most amazing ability. But that was not to be named in the same day with
what happened when Musso went to see the old man. The most practised
skill, the most impenetrable craftiness--in short, every art of the
woman most accomplished and experienced in the ways of the world--could
suggest nothing more than what little Marianna did, in order to throw
dust in the old man's eyes with the most absolute assurance of success.
She could not possibly have acted with greater talent to make the road
clear for us, whatever our undertakings were to be. The campaign
against the insane old fool was legitimate--every kind of trick and
artifice seems justified; still, however, dear Antonio, don't let my
dreamer's fancies influence you too much, and be as happy with your
Marianna as ever you can."
If only some monk had accompanied Signor Pasquale as he was on his way
to Musso's theatre with Marianna, everybody must have thought the
strange pair were being taken to the place of execution; for ahead of
them marched Michele, truculent in aspect, and armed to the teeth; and
he was followed by well on to twenty Sbirri, who were surrounding
Signor Pasquale and Marianna.
Nicolo received the old gentleman and the lady with much solemnity of
ceremony, and conducted them to the places reserved for them close in
front of the stage. Much flattered at being thus honoured, Signor
Pasquale looked about him with proud, beaming glances; and his pleasure
was increased by the circumstance that there were none but women round
and behind Marianna. Behind the scenes, on the stage, one or two
violins and a bass were being tuned, and the old gentleman's heart beat
high with anticipation, and a sort of electric shock pierced through
his joints and marrow when all at once the ritornello of his aria
sounded.
Formica came on as Pasquarello, and sang, with the gestures most
peculiarly characteristic of Capuzzi, and in his very voice, that most
atrocious of all arias. The theatre resounded with the audience's most
uproarious laughter. People shouted out: "Ah! Pasquale Capuzzi!
Compositore--Virtuoso celeberrimo! Bravo, bravissimo!" The old man, not
observing the tone of the laughter, was all delight. When the aria
ended, the audience called for silence; Doctor Graziano (played on this
occasion by Nicolo) came on, holding his ears, and calling out to
Pasquarello to cease his din, and not make such an insane crowing. He
proceeded to ask Pasquarello when he had taken to singing, and where he
had picked up that abominable tune. Pasquarello said he did not know
what the Doctor meant, and that he was just like the Romans, who had no
taste for real music, and left the finest talents in neglect. The aria,
he said, was by the greatest of living composers and virtuosi, whose
service it was his good fortune to be in, and who himself gave him
lessons in music and singing. Graziano went over the names of a number
of well-known composers and virtuosi, but at each renowned name
Pasquarello disdainfully shook his head.
At length he said the Doctor showed gross ignorance in not knowing the
very greatest composer of the day--none other than Signor Pasquale
Capuzzi, who had done him the honour to take him into his service.
Could he not see that Pasquarello was the friend and servant of Signor
Pasquale?
The Doctor broke into an immoderate fit of laughter and cried: "What!
had Pasquarello, after serving _him_, where, besides wages and food,
many a good _quattrino_ fell into his mouth, gone to the very greatest
and most accomplished skinflint and miser that ever swallowed
macaroni?--to the motley Carnival-fool, who strutted about like a
turkey-cock after a shower?--to that cur, that amorous old coxcomb, who
poisons the air in Strada Ripetta with that disgusting goat-bleating
which he calls 'singing?'" &c., &c.
To this Pasquarello answered quite angrily, that it was mere envy on
the Doctor's part. To speak with his heart in his hand (_parla col
cuore in mano_) the Doctor was by no means in a position to pass a
judgment on Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia. To speak heart in
hand, the Doctor himself had a pretty good dash of all which he was
finding fault with in the admirable Signor Pasquale. Speaking, as he
was, heart in hand, he had often, himself, known some six hundred
people or so to laugh with all their throats at Doctor Graziano
himself. And then Pasquarello held forth at great length in praise of
his new master, Signor Pasquale, attributing to him all possible
excellences, and finishing with a description of his character, which
he made out to be absolutely perfect as regarded amiability and
lovableness.
"Blessed Formica!" whispered Signor Capuzzi aside to himself, "I see
that you have determined to render my triumph complete, by rubbing the
noses of the Romans in all the envy and ingratitude with which they
have persecuted me, and showing them clearly whom and what I am."
"Here comes my master himself," cried Pasquarello; and there came on to
the stage Signor Capuzzi, as he lived and moved, in dress, face, walk,
and manner--in all respects so exactly similar to the Capuzzi down in
the audience part of the house, that the latter, quite alarmed, let go
his hold of Marianna (whom he had been holding up to this time with one
hand), and rubbed his nose and periwig, as if to find out whether he
was awake or dreaming of seeing his own double, or really in Nicolo
Musso's theatre, obliged to believe his eyes, and infer that he did see
this miraculous appearance.
The Capuzzi on the stage embraced Doctor Graziano with much amity, and
inquired after his welfare. The Doctor said his appetite was good, at
his service (_per servir-lo_), and his sleep sound; but that his purse
laboured under a complete depletion. Yesterday, in honour of his lady
love, he said, he had spent his last ducat in buying a pair of rosemary
stockings, and he was just going to certain bankers to see if they
would lend him thirty ducats.
"How could you think of such a thing?" cried Capuzzi. "Why pass the
door of your best friend? Here, my dear sir, are fifty ducats; pray
accept them."
"Pasquale, what are you doing?" cried the Capuzzi down in the audience,
half aloud.
Doctor Graziano talked of giving a bill and paying interest; but the
stage Capuzzi vowed he could not think of taking either from such a
friend as the Doctor. "Pasquale! are you crazy?" cried the Capuzzi
below, louder.
Doctor Graziano made his exit here, after many grateful embracings.
Pasquarello then went forward, with lowly reverences; lauded Signor
Capuzzi to the skies; said _his_ (Pasquarello's) purse was afflicted
with the same malady as the Doctor's, and begged for some of the same
medicine. The Capuzzi on the stage laughed, saying he was glad that
Pasquarello knew how to take advantage of his good dispositions, and
threw him two or three shining ducats.
"Pasquale, you're mad! the devil's in you!" the audience-Capuzzi cried,
very loudly. The audience called him to order. Pasquarello waxed still
louder in Capuzzi's praise, and came, at length, on the subject of the
arias which he (Capuzzi) had composed, with which he (Pasquarello) was
in hopes of charming the world. Capuzzi on the stage patted Pasquarello
on the shoulder, and said he could confide to a faithful servant like
_him_, that the truth was that he really knew nothing whatever about
music, and that the aria he had been mentioning, like all the arias he
had ever written, was cribbed from Frescobaldi's canzone, and
Carissimi's motets.
"You lie, you scoundrel, in your throat!" screamed the Capuzzi below,
rising from his seat. "Silence!--sit down!" cried the audience; the
women who were sitting near him dragged him down into his place.
The stage-Capuzzi went on to say it was time, now, to come to matters
of more importance. He wanted to give a large dinner the next day, and
Pasquarello must set to work briskly to get together all the
requirements. He drew out of his pocket a list of the most expensive
and recherché dishes, and read it aloud; as each dish was mentioned,
Pasquarello had to say how much it would cost, and the money was handed
to him on the spot.
"Pasquale!--idiotic fool!--madman!--spendthrift!--prodigal!" cried the
Capuzzi below, in crescendo, after the mention of the several dishes,
and grew more and more angry the higher the total bill for this most
unheard-of of all dinners became.
When at length the list was gone through, Pasquarello asked Signor
Pasquale's reason for giving so grand a dinner; and Capuzzi (on the
stage) replied: "To-morrow will be the happiest day of all my life. Let
me tell you, my good Pasquarello, that to-morrow I celebrate the
wedding-day, rich in blessings, of my dear niece Marianna. I am giving
her hand to that fine young fellow, the greatest of all painters,
Scacciati."
Scarce had the Capuzzi on the stage uttered those words, than he of the
audience, quite beside himself, and incapable of further self-control,
sprang up, with all the fury of a demon in his face of fire, clenched
both his fists at his counterfeit, and screamed out at him, in a
yelling voice: "That you shall not!--that you shall never! you
infernal scoundrel of a Pasquale! Will you defraud yourself of
your own Marianna, you dog? Are you going to throw her at that
diabolical rascal's head? The sweet Marianna--your life, your hope,
your all-in-all? Ah, beware! Have a care, deluded blockhead! These
fists shall beat you black and blue, and give you something else to
think about than dinners and marriages."
But the Capuzzi on the stage clenched _his_ fists too, and cried out in
a similar fury, with the same yelling voice: "May all the devils enter
your body! you cursed, senseless Pasquale! Abominable skinflint!--old
amorous goose!--motley fool, with the cap and bells over your ears!
Have a care of yourself, or I will blow the breath of life out of you!
that the mean actions you want to father upon the shoulders of the
good, honourable, upright Pasquale may be put an end to at last."
To an accompaniment of the most furious curses and maledictions of the
Capuzzi beneath, he on the stage proceeded to narrate one scurrilous
story of him after another, finishing off by crying out: "Try if you
dare, Pasquale--amorous old ape!--to interfere with the happiness of
those two young people, destined for each other by heaven."
As he spoke, there appeared at the back of the stage Antonio Scacciati
and Marianna, with their arms about each other. Shaky as the old
gentleman was on his legs, fury gave him strength and agility. At a
bound he was on to the stage, where he drew his sword, and ran at
Antonio. But he felt himself seized from behind; an officer of the
Papal Guard was holding him, and said, in a serious tone: "Consider a
little, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi; you are on Nicolo Musso's stage.
Without being aware of it, you have been playing a most entertaining
part this evening. You will not find Antonio or Marianna here." The two
performers whom Capuzzi had taken to be them had come closer, with the
rest of the actors, and he did not know their faces at all. The sword
fell from his trembling hand; he drew a deep breath, like one waking
from a fearful dream, clasped his forehead, forced his eyes wide open.
The dreadful sense of what had really happened flashed upon him, and he
cried: "Marianna!" in a terrible voice, till the walls re-echoed.
But his calling could no longer reach her ears; for Antonio had
carefully watched for the moment when Capuzzi, oblivious of everything,
even himself, was contending with his counterfeit on the stage, had
then cautiously made his way to Marianna, and taken her through the
audience to a side door, where the Vetturino was waiting with the
carriage; and away they were driven towards Florence as fast as they
could go.
"Marianna!" the old man continued crying. "She has gone!--she has
flown!--the villain Antonio has robbed me of her! Away!--after her!
Good people, have pity! Get torches; search for my dove! Ha, the
serpent!"
And the old man was making off; but the officer held him fast, saying:
"If you mean the pretty young girl who was sitting by you, I rather
fancy I saw her slip out with a young fellow--Antonio Scacciati, I
believe,--some considerable time ago, just as you were beginning that
useless, silly quarrel with the actor who had on a mask something like
you. Signor Pasquale, it is my duty to arrest you, on account of your
behaviour, and the murderous attack upon the actor."
Signor Pasquale, with pale death in his face, incapable of uttering a
word or a sound, was marched off by the very Sbirri who had come there
to protect him from masquerading demons and spectres. Thus there fell
upon him deep distress and sorrow, and all the wild despair of a
foolish and deceived old amorous fool, on the very night when he looked
to celebrate his greatest triumph.
Salvator Rosa Quits Rome For Florence. The End Of This Story.
All things here below under the sun are subject to constant change and
fluctuation, but there is nothing that more deserves to be called
fickle and fleeting than mankind's opinions, which keep rotating in an
eternal circle, like Fortune's wheel. Bitter censure falls to-day upon
him who yesterday gathered a grand harvest of praise; he who walks
to-day a-foot may to-morrow ride in a gilded chariot.
Who was there in all Rome who did not scorn and mock at old Capuzzi,
with his mean avarice, his silly amorousness, his crazy jealousy?--or
who did not wish the poor tormented Marianna her freedom? Yet now that
Antonio had succeeded in carrying her off, all the scorn and mockery
suddenly turned to pity for the poor old fellow who was seen creeping
about the streets of Rome, with bowed head, inconsolable.
Misfortunes rarely come singly. Soon after Marianna had been carried
off, Pasquale lost his dearest bosom friends. Little Pitichinaccio
choked himself with an almond, which he incautiously tried to swallow
as he was in the middle of a _cadenza_; and a slip of the pen (of
his own making) put a sudden period to the life of the renowned
Pyramid-Doctor, Signor Splendiano Accoramboni. Michele's cudgelling had
such an effect on him that he fell into a fever. He determined to cure
himself by a remedy which he believed he had discovered. He demanded
pen and ink, and wrote a recipe, in which, by putting down a wrong
fever, he enormously increased the quantity of a very powerful
ingredient; so that as soon as he swallowed the medicine he fell back
upon his pillow and was gone; proving, by his own death, the effect of
this final tincture of his prescribing in the most striking and heroic
manner.
As we have said, all who had previously laughed the most heartily at
Capuzzi, and the most sincerely wished success to the brave Antonio in
his undertaking, were now all compassion for the old man; and the
bitterest blame was laid, not upon Antonio so much as upon Salvator
Rosa, whom they all, with very good reason, held to have been at the
bottom of the whole affair.
Salvator's enemies (of whom there were a goodly band) were not slow to
stir up the fire to the best of their ability. "See!" they said; "this
is Masaniello's worthy comrade, always ready to lay his hand to any
evil trick, any robberish undertaking; if his dangerous stay in Rome is
prolonged, we shall soon feel the effects of it heavily."
And, in fact, the ignoble herd of those who conspired against Salvator
succeeded in stemming the bold flight which his fame would otherwise
have taken. One picture after another came from his hand, bold of
conception, magnificent of execution, but the so-called "connoisseurs"
always shrugged the shoulder; said, now that the mountains were too
blue; now, that the trees were too green, the figures too tall, or
too stumpy; found fault with everything where there was no fault
to be found, and made it their business to detract from Salvator's
well-merited renown in every possible way. His chief persecutors were
the members of the Academia di San Luca, who could never get over the
affair of the surgeon, and went out of their own province to depreciate
the pretty verses which Salvator wrote about that time, even trying to
make out that he did not live upon the fruit of his own land, but
pilfered the property of other people. And this, too, led to Salvator's
being by no means in a position to surround himself with the splendour
and luxury which he had formerly displayed in Rome. Instead of the
grand, spacious studio, where all the celebrities of Rome used to visit
him, he went on living at Dame Caterina's, beside his green figtree.
And in this very restrictedness he, doubtless, soon found comfort and
ease of heart.
But he laid the malignant conduct of his enemies more to heart than
there was any occasion for; nay, he felt as though some creeping
malady, engendered by annoyance and vexation, was gnawing at his inmost
marrow. In this evil mood, he conceived and executed the great pictures
which set all Rome in uproar. One of them represented the
transitoriness of all earthly things; and in the principal female
figure (which bore all the marks of a disreputable calling) it was easy
to recognize the lady-love of one of the Cardinals. In the other was
shown the Goddess of Fortune distributing her precious gifts. But
Cardinal's hats, Bishop's mitres, and decorations were falling down
upon bleating sheep, braying asses, and other despised creatures;
whilst well-favoured men, in tattered garments, looked up in vain
for the slightest favour. Salvator had given the rein to his bitter
mood, and those beasts' heads had very striking resemblances to sundry
well-known characters. It may be imagined how the hatred of him
increased, and how much more bitterly he was persecuted than before.
Dame Caterina cautioned him with tears in her eyes. She had noticed
that as soon as it was dark, birds of evil omen--suspicious-looking
characters--came slinking about the house, watching Salvator's every
step. He saw that it was time to be gone; and Dame Caterina and her
dear daughters were the only people he felt any pain in parting from.
Remembering the Duke of Tuscany's repeated invitations, he went to
Florence; and there his mortification was richly compensated for, and
the annoyances of tome lost sight of in the honour and fame--so richly
merited--which were bestowed upon him in fullest measure. The Duke's
presents, and the large prices which he got for his pictures, soon
enabled him to occupy a large mansion, and furnish it in the most
magnificent style. There he collected round him all the most famous
poets and literati of the day; it is sufficient to mention amongst them
Evangelista Torricelli, Valerio Chimentelli, Battista Ricciardi, Andrea
Cavalcanti, Pietro Salviati, Filippo Apolloni, Volumnio Bandelli,
Francesco Rovai. Art and science were joined together in a charming
fusion, and Salvator Rosa had a manner of endowing the meetings with an
element of the fanciful, which in a peculiar manner gave a stimulus to
the thoughts and ideas of the company. Thus, the dining-hall had the
appearance of a beautiful shrubbery, containing sweet-smelling bushes
and flowers and gurgling springs; and the very dishes, served by
singularly-attired pages, had a wonderful appearance, as if they came
from some far-off enchanted land. These assemblages of poets and
_savants_ in Salvator Rosa's house were at the time known as the
Academia de' Percossi.
But although Salvator occupied his mind in this manner with art and
science, his inmost heart was cheered by his friend Antonio Scacciati,
who was living a happy artistic life, free from care, with the
beautiful Marianna. They used to think, sometimes, of the old deceived
Signor Pasquale, and all that took place in Nicolo Musso's theatre. And
Antonio asked Salvator how he had managed to interest not only Musso,
but the wonderful Formica and Agli, in his affairs, to employ their
talents on his behalf as they had done. Salvator said it had been an
easy matter, inasmuch as Formica had been his most intimate friend in
Rome, and always delighted to carry out upon the stage anything that he
had suggested to him. Antonio declared that, much as he was unable
still to help laughing when he thought of the occurrence which had made
no happiness, he wished, from his heart, for a reconciliation with the
old man, even although he should never touch a farthing of Marianna's
fortune (which the old man had taken possession of), seeing that his
art brought him money enough. Marianna, too, could often not restrain
her tears at the thought that her father's brother would never till his
dying day forgive the trick that had been played upon him; and thus
Pasquale's hatred cast a sorrowful shadow upon her happy life. Salvator
comforted them both with the thought that time cures much harder
matters, and that chance might perhaps bring the old man to them in a
much less dangerous manner than if they had remained in Rome, or were
to go back there now.
We shall find that a spirit of prophecy dwelt in Salvator. A
considerable time had elapsed, when one day Antonio burst into
Salvator's studio, breathless, and pale as death. "Salvator!" he cried;
"my friend! my protector!--I am lost unless you help me! Pasquale
Capuzzi is here, and has got a warrant to arrest me for carrying off
his niece."
"But what can Pasquale do to you now?" asked Salvator. Has not the
Church united Marianna and you?"
"Alas!" answered Antonio, in despair, "even the Church cannot save me
here. Heaven knows how he has accomplished it, but the old man has
managed to get the ear of the Pope's nephew; and it is this nephew who
has taken him under his protection, and given him hope that the Holy
Father will declare our marriage void; and not only that, but give him
a dispensation to enable _him_ to marry his niece."
"Stop!" cried Salvator. "Now--_now_ I understand the whole matter. It
is that nephew's hatred for _me_, Antonio, which threatens to ruin
everything. This nephew--this conceited, raw, boorish fellow--is one of
those beasts which the Goddess of Fortune is overwhelming with her
gifts in that picture of mine. That it was I who helped you to your
Marianna--more or less indirectly, of course--is known not only to this
nephew, but to every one in Rome. Season enough to persecute you, since
they cannot specify anything against _me_. Even were it not for my
affection for you, Antonio, as my best and dearest friend, I could not
but stand by you if it were for nothing else than that it is I who have
brought this mischance upon you. But, by all the saints, I do not see
how I am to set about spoiling the game of your enemies."
As he said this Salvator, who up to this point had been working away at
a picture without interrupting himself, laid his brushes, palette and
mahlstick down, got up from his easel, and, folding his arms across his
breast, strode 'several times up and down, whilst Antonio, in deepest
thought, contemplated the floor with fixed glance.
Presently Salvator halted before him, and cried, laughing: "Antonio,
there is nothing that _I_ can accomplish as against your powerful
enemies; but there is _one_ who can, and will, help you; and that is
Signor Formica."
"Alas!" cried Antonio; "do not jest with an unfortunate, for whom there
is no further salvation."
"Still determined to despair?" cried Salvator, who had suddenly risen
into the highest spirits. He laughed aloud: "I tell you, Antonio,
friend Formica will help in Florence quite as well as he did in Rome.
Go quietly home. Comfort your Marianna, and await the course of events
quite tranquilly. All I expect of you is that you will be ready and
prepared to do whatever Signor Formica--who happens to be here at this
moment--may require of you." Antonio promised obedience with all his
heart, hope and confidence at once beginning to glimmer up within him.
Signor Pasquale was not a little astonished to receive a formal
invitation from the Academia de' Percossi. "Ha!--indeed!" he cried.
"One sees that Florence is the place where they know how to esteem
merit; where a man endowed with such gifts as Signor Pasquale Capuzzi
di Senegalia chances to possess, is properly appreciated."
Thus the thought of the amount of artistic knowledge which he
possessed, and of the honours which were being paid to him in
consequence, overcame the repugnance which he would otherwise have
entertained to an assemblage which had Salvator Rosa, at its head. The
Spanish state costume was brushed more carefully than usual; the
steeple-crowned hat adorned with a new feather; the shoes set off with
fresh bows of ribbon; and Signor Pasquale made his appearance in
Salvator's house glittering like a golden beetle, with a countenance of
radiant sunshine. The splendour around him--Salvator himself (who was
much more finely dressed than he had been wont to be)--inspired him
with reverence; and--as is usually the case with shallow souls, which
are puffed-up at first, but at once fall down into the dust when they
perceive any distinct superiority over them--Pasquale was all deference
and humility towards that Salvator whom he was for ever lording over in
Rome.
So much attention was paid to Signor Pasquale on all hands; his
opinions were so unconditionally appealed to; so much was said as to
his artistic merits, that he felt himself a new man; nay, it seemed to
him that a special spirit came to life within him, so that he really
spoke much more sensibly on many subjects than might have been
expected. As, in addition to all this, he had never in all his life
partaken of such a splendid dinner, or tasted such inspiring wine, his
enjoyment necessarily mounted higher and higher, and he forgot all
about the wrongs done him in Rome, and the unpleasant business which
had brought him to Florence.
In a short time the bushes at the bottom of the hall began to get in
motion, the leafy branches opened out apart, and a little theatre came
into view, with its stage, and some seats for an audience.
"All ye saints!" cried Pasquale Capuzzi, in much alarm. "Where am I?
That is Nicolo Mussos's theatre!"
Without paying attention to his outcry, two gentlemen of dignified
appearance--Evangelista Torricelli and Andrea Cavalcanti--took him by
the arms, one on each side, and conducted him to a seat in front of the
stage, taking their places on either side of him.
No sooner were they seated than there entered on to the stage, Formica,
as Pasquarello!
"Accursed Formica!" cried Pasquale, springing up and shaking his
clenched fist towards the stage. Torricelli's and Cavalcanti's grave
looks of disapproval, however, constrained him to silence and
quietness.
Pasquarello sobbed, wept, and cursed his fate which brought him nothing
but grief and misery; declared he did not know how he should manage to
laugh, were it but ever so little, and concluded by saying that, in the
excess of his despair, he would most certainly cut his throat, were it
not that the sight of blood always made him faint; or throw himself
into the river, if he only could help swimming when in the water.
Here Doctor Graziano entered and inquired the cause of his grief.
Pasquarello asked him if he did not know what had been happening in his
master's, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia's, house?--whether he
had heard that an abandoned ruffian had run off with his master's
niece, Marianna?
"Ha!" murmured Capuzzi, "I see what it is, Signor Formica. You think
you will exculpate and excuse yourself; you desire my forgiveness.
Well, we shall see."
Doctor Graziano expressed his sympathy, and thought the ruffian must
have been very clever to have evaded Capuzzi's search after him.
Pasquarello told the Doctor not to allow himself to imagine that the
rascal Antonio Scacciati succeeded in getting the better of the deep
and clever Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, supported as he was, moreover, by
influential friends. Antonio was in prison, his marriage declared void,
and Marianna again in her uncle's hands.
"Has he got her?" cried Capuzzi, beyond himself; "has he got her again,
the good Capuzzi? Has he got his little dove again; his Marianna? Is
the scoundrel Antonio in prison? O most blessed Formica!"
"You take too lively an interest in the piece, Signor Pasquale," said
Cavalcanti very seriously. "Pray allow the actors to speak, and do not
interrupt them."
Signor Pasquale, abashed, sat down in his place again.
Pasquarello went on to say that there had been a wedding. Marianna had
repented of what she had done; Signor Pasquale had obtained the
necessary dispensation from the Holy Father, and had married his niece.
"Yes, yes," murmured Pasquale, aside, whilst his eyes shone with
delight; "yes, yes, my dearest Formica! He marries the sweet Marianna,
the lucky Pasquale! He always knew the little dove loved him; it was
but the devil that led her astray."
In that case, Doctor Graziano said, everything was well, and there was
no cause for lamentation.
But Pasquarello began to sob and cry more violently than before, and at
last fell down in a faint, as if overcome by his terrible sorrow.
Doctor Graziano ran about anxiously; regretted that he had not a
smelling-bottle about him; searched in all his pockets, and at length
pulled out a roasted chestnut, which he held under the nose of the
insensible Pasquarello. The latter recovered at once, sneezing
violently, begged him to excuse the weak state of his nerves, and went
on to say that after the marriage Marianna had fallen into the deepest
melancholy, calling continually on Antonio's name, and regarding the
old man with loathing and contempt. But the latter, blinded by his love
and jealousy, had never ceased torturing her in the most terrible
manner with his foolishness. Then Pasquarello related a number of mad
tricks which Pasquale had been guilty of, and which were actually told
of him in Rome. Signor Pasquale jigged uneasily on his seat here and
there, murmuring, "Accursed Formica, you lie!--what devil inspires
you?" It was only the fact that Torricelli and Cavalcanti kept their
grave eyes fixed upon him that restrained a wild outburst of his anger.
Pasquarello ended by saying that the luckless Marianna had at last
fallen a victim to her unstilled love-longing, her bitter sorrow, and
the thousand-fold tortures which the accursed old man had inflicted
upon her, and had passed away from this world, in the flower of her
age.
At this moment there was heard an awe-inspiring _De profundis_, chanted
by hoarse and hollow voices; and men in long white mantles appeared
upon the stage bearing a bier, on which lay the body of the beautiful
Marianna, shrouded in white grave-clothes. Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, in
the deepest mourning, tottered along behind it, moaning aloud, beating
his breast, and crying, in his despair, "Oh, Marianna! Marianna!"
When the Capuzzi in the audience saw the body of his niece, both the
Capuzzis (him on the stage and he of the audience) howled, and cried in
the most heart-breaking tones: "Oh, Marianna! Oh, Marianna! Miserable
man that I am! Ah me! Ah me!"
Imagine the corpse of the beautiful girl on the open tier, Surrounded
by the mourners, their solemn _De profundis_, and along with all
this, the comic masks, Doctor Graziano and Pasquarello, expressing
their grief in the most absurd gesticulations; and then the two
Capuzzis, howling and crying in despair. And in truth, all they who
were spectators of this strangest of dramatic representations,
notwithstanding the irrepressible laughter into which they could not
help breaking over the extraordinary old man, were penetrated by a deep
and eerie shudder of awe.
The stage now suddenly grew dark. There was thunder and lightning; and
out of the depths arose a pale and spectral form, exactly alike in
every feature to Capuzzi's brother, Pietro, father of Marianna, who
died in Senegaglia.
"Wicked Pasquale!" cried the spectre-form, in hollow, terrible tones;
"what have you done with my daughter? Despair and die, accursed
murderer of my child! Your reward awaits you in hell!"
The Capuzzi on the stage fell down as if struck by lightning, and at
the same instant the Capuzzi down beneath fell senseless from his seat.
The branches rustling, closed into their former places; and the stage,
with Marianna and Capuzzi, and Pietro's grizzly ghost, disappeared from
view. Signor Pasquale was in such a deep faint that it cost some
trouble to bring him to himself again.
At last he revived, with a deep sigh, stretched his hands out before
him as if to keep off the terror which seized upon him, and cried in
hollow tones: "Let me go, Pietro!" A stream of tears burst from his
eyes, and he cried, with sobs: "Ah, Marianna!--my darling beautiful
girl!--my own Marianna!"
"Bethink you!" said Cavalcanti at last. "Consider Signor Pasquale! It
was only on the stage that you saw your niece dead. She is alive. She
is here, to implore your forgiveness for the thoughtless stratagem to
which love--and, perhaps, your own inconsiderate conduct--impelled
her."
Here Marianna, with Antonio Scacciati behind her, rushed forward from
the back of the hall, and fell at the feet of the old gentleman, who
had been placed in an easy chair. Marianna, in the fullest lustre of
her beauty, kissed his hands, bedewed them with hot tears, and begged
forgiveness for herself and Antonio, united to her by the Church's
benediction. From the old man's deathly pale face flames suddenly
broke, fury flashed from his eyes, and he cried in a half-articulate
voice: "Ha! abandoned wretch!--venomous serpent! whom I nourished in my
bosom, for my destruction!" But the grave old Torricelli came up to
him, in all his dignity, and said that he (Capuzzi) had seen in a
figure the fate which would inevitably overtake him if he dared to
prosecute his evil design against the peace and happiness of Antonio
and Marianna. He painted, in the most brilliant colours, the folly--the
madness--of amorous old age yielding to love, which has the power of
bringing down upon its head the most destroying evil with which Heaven
can threaten man, since it annihilates all the affection which
might still be his portion, whilst hatred and contempt aim their
death-dealing arrows at him from every side.
And Marianna cried out, in a tone which penetrated the heart: "Oh, my
uncle! I want to love and honour you as a father! You will bring me to
the bitter death if you take Antonio from me!"
And all the poets who were surrounding the old man cried, with one
voice, that it was impossible that such an one as Signor Pasquale
Capuzzi di Senegaglia--a lover and patron of the arts, himself an
admirable and accomplished artist--should not forgive; that he, who
occupied the position of a father to the loveliest of women, should not
welcome with joy, as a son-in-law, a painter such as Antonio Scacciati,
prized by the whole of Italy, overwhelmed with honour and fame.
It was easy to see that a mental process of some kind was going on
within the old man. He sighed; he groaned; he hid his face in his
hands, whilst Torricelli plied him with the most convincing arguments;
whilst Marianna implored him, in the most moving accents; whilst the
others extolled and belauded Antonio Scacciati to the utmost of their
skill. The old man looked, now at his niece, now at Antonio, whose fine
dress and rich chain of honour proved the truth of what was urged as to
his artistic position and success.
All anger had disappeared from Capuzzi's countenance. He sprung up with
beaming glances, pressed Marianna to his heart, and cried: "Yes, I
forgive you, my beloved child! I forgive you, Antonio! Far be it from
mo to destroy your happiness. You are right, my worthy Signor
Torricelli. Signor Formica has shown me, in a figure, on the stage, all
the misery and destruction which would have come upon me if I had
carried out my insane idea. I am cured--completely cured--of my folly.
But where is Signor Formica?--where is my worthy physician, that I may
thank him a thousand times for my recovery, which he has brought about.
The terror which he knew how to cause me has transformed my whole
being."
Pasquarello came forward. Antonio threw himself upon his breast,
crying:
"Oh, Signor Formica! to whom I owe my life, my all! cast aside the mask
which disguises you, that I may see your face--that Formica may cease
to be a mystery to me."
Pasquarello took off the cap, and the skilfully-constructed mask, which
seemed to be an actual, natural face, placing no obstacle in the way of
facial expression. And this Formica--this Pasquarello--was transformed
into--Salvator Rosa!
"Salvator!" cried Marianna, Antonio, and Capuzzi, _ensemble_, all
amazement.
"Yes," said that wondrous man. "Salvator Rosa; whom the Romans would
have none of, as painter, as poet; and who, as Formica, for more than a
year, on Nicolo Musso's poor little stage, moved them almost nightly to
the loudest and most immoderate applause; from whom they gladly
accepted all ridicule and mockery of what was bad, though they would
not swallow it in Salvator's poems and pictures. Salvator Formica it is
who has aided you, dear Antonio."
"Salvator!" old Capuzzi began; "Salvator Rosa! I have looked upon you
as my worst enemy, but I have always held your art in highest honour;
and now I love you as the most valued of my friends, and I venture to
beg you to accept me as such."
"Say, my worthy Signor Pasquale," answered Salvator, "in what I can be
of service to you, and be assured beforehand that I will employ all my
powers to fulfil your desires."
There dawned in Capuzzi's face once more that sugary smile which had
vanished since Marianna's departure. He took Salvator's hand, and
whispered gently: "My dear Signor Salvator, you can do anything with
the good Antonio. Beg him, in my name, to allow me to spend the brief
remainder of my days with him and my dear daughter Marianna, and to
accept from me the fortune which she inherits from her mother, to which
I mean to add a liberal marriage-portion. And then, too, he mustn't
look askew if I now and then kiss the lovely child's little white hand;
and--at all events on Sundays when I go to mass--he must dress my
moustache for me; a thing which nobody in all the world can do as he
can."
Salvator had difficulty in restraining his laughter; but before he
could make answer, Antonio and Marianna, embracing the old man, assured
him that they would not consider the reconciliation complete, or feel
thoroughly happy, until he took his place by their hearth as a beloved
father, never to leave them more. Antonio added that he would dress
Capuzzi's moustachios not only on Sundays, but every day of the week,
in the daintiest manner. And now the old man was all joy and happiness.
Meanwhile a splendid supper had been served, and to this they all sate
down, in the happiest mood of mind.
In taking my leave of you, dear reader, I wish with all my heart that
the happiness which has now fallen to the lot of Salvator and all his
friends, may have glowed very brightly in your own breast, whilst you
have been reading the story of the marvellous Signor Formica.
"Now," began Lothair, when Ottmar had ended, "since our friend has
been fair and honourable enough to admit from the outset the lack of
vigour--the weakness of knee, so to speak, of his production, which it
has pleased him to call a 'Novella,' this appeal to our considerateness
does, certainly, draw the sting out of our criticisms, which were
formed up, in complete steel, to attack him. He bares his bosom to the
partizan-pike, and therefore, as magnanimous adversaries, we withhold
our thrust, and are bound to have mercy."
"More than that," said Cyprian, "to console his pain, we feel ourselves
permitted to bestow a certain limited amount of praise. For my part, I
see a good deal in this work that is pleasant and Serapiontic.
Capuzzi's broken leg, for instance, and its consequences, his
mysterious serenade----"
"Which," interrupted Vincenz, "has all the more of the real Spanish, or
the true Italian smack about it, just because it ends with a tremendous
cudgelling. No proper Novella of the kind would be complete without the
due amount of licking, and I prize it highly as, medically speaking, a
specially powerful stimulant, always employed by the best writers. In
Boccacio things hardly ever wind up without cudgelling; and where does
it rain more blows or thrusts than in the Romance of all Romances, 'Don
Quixote?' Cervantes himself considered it necessary to apologise to his
readers about it. Now-a-days intellectual ladies will have none of such
matters in connection with the mental 'teas' (which they enjoy along
with tea for the body); the honoured hide of a favourite poet--if he
would retain his footing at 'teas,' and in pocket-books--must, at
highest, be blackened by a tap or so on the nose, or the least little
box on an ear. But what of tea? What of cultivated ladies? Behold in
me, oh, Ottmar, your champion in complete armour, and cudgel soundly in
all the novels you may be thinking of writing. I praise you for the
cudgelling's sake."
"And I," said Theodore, "for the delightful trio which Capuzzi, the
Pyramid-doctor, and the somewhat shudder-creating little abortion,
Pitichinaccio, form; and, moreover, for the wonderful way in which
Salvator Rosa--who never appears as the hero of the tale, but always as
an auxiliary--conforms to his character as it is described, and also as
it appears in his own works."
"Ottmar," said Sylvester, "has held chiefly to the adventurous and
enterprising side of his character, and given us less of what was grave
and gloomy in him. _A propos_ of this, I think of the famous sonnet in
which, allegorising on his own name--Salvator--he utters his deep
indignation at his enemies and persecutors who accused him of
plundering from older writers in his poetry, which, indeed, is all
ruggedness, and deficient in interior connectedness."
"But," said Lothair, "to return to Ottmar's Novella. The principal
fault which I have to find with it is that, instead of a story rounding
itself into a whole in all its parts, he has merely given us a series
of pictures, although they are often delightful enough."
"Can I do otherwise than fully agree with you?" said Ottmar. "Still,
you will all admit that it requires very skilful navigation to keep
clear of the rocks upon which I have run."
"Perhaps," said Sylvester, "the rocks in question are more dangerous to
dramatic writers. Nothing--at least in my opinion--is more annoying
than, instead of a Comedy, in which all that happens is necessarily and
closely attached to the thread which runs through the piece, and should
appear to be indispensably necessary to the picture represented, to see
merely a series of arbitrary incidents, or even unconnected, detached
situations; and indeed, the ablest dramatic author of recent times has
set the example of this thoughtless (or 'frivolous') treatment of
Comedy. Does the 'Pagen-streiche,' for example, consist of anything but
a series of ludicrous situations strung together apparently by chance,
and at random? In former days, when, on the whole (at all events as
regards the drama), one cannot complain of the want of due seriousness,
every writer of a Comedy took much pains to construct a regular plot,
and out of that plot all the comic element, the drollery, nay, the very
absurdity, duly evolved itself, of itself; because it seemed the
natural thing for it to do. Jünger (although he but too often seems
very 'flat') always did this, and even Brenner--utterly prosaic as he
was on the whole--was by no means deficient in the power of making the
comic element flow out from his plots, and his characters have often
real force and vividness of life, derived from actuality; as, for
instance, in his 'Eheprokurator.' Only those ladies of his, with their
grand phrases, are completely unenjoyablo by us nowadays.
Notwithstanding this, I have a very high opinion of him, for the
reasons I have given."
"In my mind," said Theodore, "his Operas put him out of court
altogether. They may serve as examples how an opera ought not to be
written."
"For the simple reason," said Vincenz, "that the departed (peace to his
ashes, as Sylvester very properly said) did not show many signs of
having much poetry in his constitution; so that in the romantic realm
of opera he could not find the slightest indication of a track to go
upon. However, as you are talking in this strain on the subject of
Comedy, I might do worse than point out that you are wasting your time
in discussing a nonentity--a thing which does not exist; and cry out to
you, as Romeo did to Mercutio--
'Peace, peace, good people, peace,
Ye talk of nothing.'
What I mean is that, taking them altogether, we never see a single
German Comedy presented on the stage, for the simple reason that the
old ones cannot be swallowed or digested (by reason of the weakness
of our stomachs), and new ones are no longer written. The reason
of the latter I might establish, very briefly, in a treatise of
some forty sheets or so; but, for the moment, I let you off with a
play-upon-words. What I say is, that we have no comic plays, because we
have none of the comic which plays with itself; nor the sense for it."
"Dixi," cried Sylvester, laughing. "Dixi, and the name 'Vincenz'
thereunder, with due stamp and seal. I happened, at the moment, to be
thinking that in the lowest class of dramatic performances, or rather
of productions destined to be represented on the stage, perhaps those
should be included in which some clever _farceur_ mystifies and befools
some good uncle--a theatre director, or some such person. And yet it is
not so very long ago that shallow, stupid stuff of this description
constituted almost the daily bread of every stage. Just at present
there seems to be more or less an intermission in this."
"It will never come to an end," said Theodore, "as long as there are
actors to whom nothing in the world can be more delightful than to let
themselves be wondered at and admired as chameleontic marvels, in
that they change their costume and appearance in the most varied
manner in the course of the same evening. Right out of the very
depths of my being have I been compelled to roar with laughter over
the self-apotheosis of self-sufficiency with which, after passing
through a marvellous series of soul-transmigrations, the true _ego_ of
the performer takes its enfranchised flight, like a beautiful insect.
Generally speaking, this is done in the shape of a pretty, elegant
night-moth, dressed in black, with silk stockings, and a three-cornered
hat under one arm, having, from the moment of its appearance as such,
only to deal with the admiring public, not troubling itself about that
which previously had been doing it soccage-service. As (_vide_ Wilhelm
Meister's 'Lehr-jahren') a special line of parts may so bind and
enslave to it some given actor, who, for instance, plays all the
characters who have to be cudgelled, or otherwise maltreated, every
stage must possess a _sujet_ who undertakes all the parts of the
character of _souffre douleur_, and consequently plays those
indispensable theatre managers, &c.; at all events, every starring
actor has a part of the kind in his pocket, by way of entrance-pass, or
letter of credit."
"What you say," answered Lothair, "reminds me of a most extraordinary
fellow whom I met with in a theatrical troupe in a small town in the
south of Germany, who was the exact image of that 'pedant' (to speak
technically) in Wilhelm Meister. Insupportable as he now was on the
stage in his little minor parts, _praying_ them out in the most direful
monotony, it was said that formerly, in his younger days, he had been
a capital actor, and used to play, for instance, those sly, scampish
inn-keepers which, in older times, used to occur in almost every
comedy, and over whose total disappearance from the stage the host in
Tieck's 'Verkehrter Welt' complains. When I knew this man he seemed to
have completely accepted his fate, which truely had been a pretty hard
one, and, in complete apathy, to place no value on anything in the
world, least of all on himself. Nothing penetrated the crust which the
heaping up of the most complete wretchedness had formed over the
surface of his better self, and he was perfectly satisfied with himself
under it; and yet there often beamed out of his deep-set, clever eyes
the gleam of a higher intelligence, and there would rapidly jerk over
his face the expression of a bitter irony, so that the exaggerated
submissiveness with which he bore himself towards every one--and
more particularly towards his manager (a silly young man, full of
vanity)--took, in him, the form of an ironical contempt. On Sundays he
used to take his seat at the lower end of the _table d'hôte_ of the
best hotel in the place, dressed in a good well-brushed suit of
clothes, whose cut and extraordinary pattern indicated the actor of a
long by-gone period; and there he enjoyed a hearty meal, never saying a
word to a soul, although he was exceptionally temperate, particularly
as regarded the wine, for he scarcely half-emptied the bottle which was
placed before him. At each filling of his glass he made a courteous bow
to the landlord, who gave him his Sunday dinner in return for his
teaching his children reading and writing. It happened that I was
dining one Sunday at this _table d'hôte_, and found only one vacant
seat, which was at this old fellow's side. I hastened to occupy this
place, hoping that I might have the good fortune to bring to the
surface that better spirit which must be shut up within the man. It was
difficult, almost impossible, to get hold of that spirit. Just when one
thought one had him, he suddenly dived down, and slunk away in utter
humility of submissiveness. At length, after I had with difficulty
induced him to swallow a glass or two of good wine, he seemed to begin
to thaw a little, and spake with visible emotion of the fine old
theatrical times, now past and gone, apparently never to return. The
tables were being cleared; one or two of my friends joined themselves
to me; the player wanted to take his leave. I held him fast, though he
made the most touching protests. A poor superannuated actor, he said,
was no fit company for gentlemen such as we; it would be better that he
should not stay, it was not his place, and so forth. It was not so much
to my powers of persuasion as to the irresistible attractions of a cup
of coffee, and a pipe of the best Knaster, which I had in my pocket,
that I could attribute his remaining. He spoke with vividness and
_esprit_ of the old theatrical days. He had seen Eckhoff, and acted
with Schroeder. It came out that the untuned state in which he was now
so marred proceeded from the circumstance that those by-gone days had
been, for him, the world wherein he had breathed freely, and moved
unconstrainedly, and that, now that he was thrown forth out of that
period, he had no firm standing-point that he could get hold of. But
how marvellously did this man astonish us when, having become
thoroughly at his ease, and free from constraint with us, he spoke the
speech of the Ghost in Hamlet, as given in Schroeder's version
(Schlegel's translation he knew nothing about), with a power of
expression which touched our hearts; and we were all moved to
admiration at the manner in which he delivered several passages from
the part of Oldenhelm (for he would have nothing to say to the name
'Polonius'), rendering them in such a way that we distinctly saw before
our eyes the courtier, in his second childhood now, but who had clearly
not lacked worldly wisdom in former times, and still showed distinct
traces of it. This he brought before us in a manner very seldom seen on
the boards. All this, however, was but the prelude to a scene which I
never saw the parallel of, and which I can never forget. It is
here that I really, for the first time, come to what, during this
conversation of ours, brought to my remembrance the old actor in
question, and my worthy Serapion Brethren must pardon me if I have made
my introduction to this somewhat too long. This man was compelled to
undertake those wretched subordinate parts which we were talking of,
and thus it chanced that, some days after the occasion I have been
speaking of, he had to play the part of the 'Manager' in the piece 'The
Rehearsal,' which the _Impresario_ had altered to suit himself,
thinking he particularly excelled in it. Whether it was that the
conversation with us has stirred up his inner, better self, or that,
perhaps (as it was rumoured afterwards), on that day he had reinforced
his natural power with wine--contrary as that was to his usual custom--
he had no sooner come upon the stage than he appeared to be a totally
different man from what he had been at other times. His eyes sparkled,
and the hollow wavering voice of the worn-out hypochondriac was
transformed into a clear, resonant bass, such as is employed by jovial
characters of the old style; for instance, the rich uncles who, in the
exercise of poetical justice, punish folly and reward virtue. The
beginning of the piece gave no indication of what was to come; but how
amazed was the audience when, after the first changes of dress had been
made, the strange creature turned upon the manager with sarcastic
smiles, and addressed him somewhat as follows: 'Would not the respected
audience have recognised our good So-and-so' (he mentioned the
manager's name here), 'just as readily as I did myself at the first
glance? Is it possible to base the power of deception on a coat cut in
a particular fashion, or on a more or less frizzled wig? and in this
way to stuff out a meagre talent, unsupported by any vigour of
intelligence, like a child deserted by its nurse? The young man who is
trying to pass himself off upon me, in this unskilled manner, as a
many-sided artist, a chameleontic genius, need not gesticulate so
immoderately with his hands, nor fold himself up like a pocketknife
after each of his speeches, nor roll his r's so fearfully; and if he
had not done so, I believe that a highly-prized audience (any more than
I myself) would not have recognised our little manager in one instant,
as has been the case now, to such an extent that it is pitiable. But,
inasmuch as the piece has got to go on for another half-hour, I shall
conduct myself, this once more, as if I didn't see it; although the
affair is terribly tedious and uncongenial to me.' Be it enough to say
that upon each fresh entrance of the manager, the old fellow ridiculed
his acting in the most delicious manner; and it may be fancied that
this was accompanied by the most ringing laughter of the audience;
whilst the best part of it all was that the manager, completely
absorbed in his numerous changes of costume, was absolutely unconscious
of what was going forward till the very last scene. Perhaps the old
fellow may have made a wicked compact with the theatre tailor; but it
is a fact that the wretched manager's wardrobe had got into the most
complete confusion, so that the intermediate scenes which the old man
had to fill out lasted much longer than usual, giving him time enough
to let the fulness of his bitter mockery of the poor manager stream
forth in all its glory, and even to imitate his manner of speaking,
saying many things with a wicked verity which sent the audience out of
itself. The whole piece was turned topsy-turvy, so that the stop-gap
intermediate scenes became the principal and important part of the
business. It was delightful, too, how the old fellow sometimes told the
audience beforehand how the manager was going to appear, mimicking his
gestures and attitudes; and that he attributed the ringing laughter,
which really belonged to the old fellow's admirable imitation of him,
to his own success in making up. At last, however, the manager could
not possibly help finding out what the old fellow was doing, and you
may suppose he flew at him like a raging wild boar, so that it was all
that he could do to escape mishandling. He did not dare to appear on
the stage again; but the audience and the public had got so fond of the
old actor, and took his side with so much zeal, that the manager
(burdened, moreover, since that celebrated evening, with the curse of
ludicrosity), found himself compelled to close his theatre, and betake
himself elsewhere. Several respectable townsmen, with the innkeeper at
their head, met, and collected a considerable sum of money for the old
actor, enough to enable him to have done for ever with the worries of
the stage, and end his days in comfort in the place. But marvellous,
nay, unfathomable, is the mind of an actor! Before a year was over he
suddenly disappeared, nobody knew whither, and presently he was
discovered travelling with a strolling company, quite in the same
subordinate position from which he had so recently shaken himself
clear."
"With a very slight 'moral application,'" said Ottmar, "this tale of
the old actor belongs to the moral codex of all stage-players, and of
those who desire to become players."
During this, Cyprian had risen silently, and, after walking once or
twice up and down the room, taken his position behind the window
curtain. Just when Ottmar ceased speaking, a blast of wind came
suddenly howling and raging in. The lights threatened to go out;
Theodore's writing-table seemed to become alive; hundreds of papers
flew up, and were wafted about the room; the strings of the old piano
groaned aloud.
"Hey, hey!" cried Theodore, as he saw his literary notices, and who
knows what other written matter, at the mercy of the raging autumn
storm. "Hey, hey, Cyprianus, what are you about?" And they all set to
work to keep the lights in, and shield themselves from the thick
snowflakes which came swirling in.
"It is true," said Cyprian, shutting the window, "the weather won't let
one look to see what it is."
"Tell me," said Sylvester, taking the wholly absentminded and deeply
preoccupied Cyprian by both hands, and forcing him to sit down again in
the seat he had left, "only tell me--that is all I ask--where have you
been? In what distant region have you been wandering? for far, far away
from us has that restless spirit of yours been bearing you again."
"Not so very far away from you as you may suppose," answered Cyprian.
"And, at all events, it was your own conversation which opened the door
for my departure. You had been saying so much about Comedy, and Vincenz
was stating his conclusion (justly resulting from experience), that
amongst us the fun which plays with itself is lost. It occurred to me
that, on the other hand, many real talents have displayed themselves in
tragedy, in more and most recent times, and along with this thought I
was struck by the remembrance of a writer who began, with genuine,
high-aspiring genius, but suddenly, as if carried away by some fatal
eddy, went under, so that his name is scarcely ever heard of."
"There," said Ottmar, "you were going in exact opposition to Lothair's
principle--that true genius never goes under."
"And Lothair is right," answered Cyprian, "if he holds that the
fiercest storms of life cannot blow out the flame which blazes forth
from the inner spirit,--that the bitterest adversities, the keenest
misfortunes fight in vain against the inner heavenly might of the soul,
which only bends the bow to deliver the arrow with the greater power.
But how were it if in the first inner germ of the embryo there lurked
the poisonous parasite larva, the worm, which, developing along with
the beautiful blossom, gnaws at its life, so that it bears its death
within itself? No storm is then needed for its destruction."
"In that case," said Lothair, "your genius would be wanting in the
first condition indispensible to the tragic-poet who would enter upon
life free, and in possession of his powers. I mean that such a poet's
genius must be absolutely healthy--sound--free from the slightest
ailment, such as psychic weakness, or, to use your language, anything
such as congenital poison. Who could, and can, congratulate himself
more on such a soundness of mental constitution than our grand
G[oe]the, mighty father of us all? It is with such an unweakened
strength as his, with such an inward purity, that heroes are begotten,
such as Goetz von Berlichingen and Egmont! And if we cannot, perhaps,
admit such a heroic power (in quite the same degree) in our Schiller,
there is, on the other hand, that pure sun-glance of the inner soul
beaming round his heroes in which we, beneficently warmed, feel as
powerful and strong as their creator. And we must not forget the Robber
Moor, whom Ludwig Tieck, with perfect justice, calls the Titanic
creation of a young and daring imagination. But we are getting far from
the tragic poet whom you were speaking of, Cyprian, and I hope you will
tell us at once to whom you allude, although I fancy I have a strong
idea?"
"I was very nearly breaking in upon your conversation, as I did once
before, with strange words and sayings," answered Cyprian, "which you
would not have understood, inasmuch as you were not seeing the images
of my waking-dream. Nevertheless, I cry out 'No! Since the days of
Shakespeare there never stalked such a Being across the stage as this
superhumanly terrible, gruesome old man!' And that you may not remain a
moment longer in doubt on the subject, I add at once that no modern
poet can congratulate himself on such a loftily tragic and powerful
creation as the author of the Söhne des Thales."
The friends looked at each other in amazement. They made a rapid
pass-muster of the principal characters in Zacharias Werner's pieces,
and then came to the same conclusion--that in every case there was a
certain element of the strange and singular, and often of the
commonplace, mingled with the truly great, the grandly tragic which
seemed to indicate that the author had never come to any really clear
seeing of his heroes, and that he was doubtless deficient in that
absolute health and soundness of the inner mind which Lothair
considered indispensible to every writer of tragedy.
Theodore alone had been laughing within himself, as if he were of
another opinion, and now began:
"Halt! Halt! ye worthy Serapion Brethren. Don't be in too great a
hurry. I know very well, in fact, I am the only one of you who can
know, that Cyprian is speaking of a work which the writer never
finished, which is consequently unknown to the world, although friends
in the writer's neighbourhood, to whom he communicated sketches of
scenes from it, had ample reason to be convinced that it would rise to
the position of being amongst the grandest and most powerful, not only
that he ever produced, but which have been seen in modern days."
"Of course," said Cyprian, "I was talking of the second part of the
'Kreuz an der Ostsee,' in which it is that the terrible, gruesome,
gigantic character to whom I was alluding occurs, the old King of
Prussia, Waidewuthis. It may be impossible for me to give you a
distinct idea of this character, which the poet, by virtue of some
mighty spell at his command, seems to have conjured up from the
mysterious depths of the subterranean kingdoms. It must suffice if I
enable you to look into the interior mechanism of the springs which the
poet has placed within it to set this production of his into due
activity of movement. According to historical tradition, the earliest
'culture' of the ancient Prussians was originated by their king,
Waidewuthis. He introduced the rights of property. The fields were
divided, and agriculture carried on. He also gave the nation a form of
religious worship, inasmuch as he himself carved three graven images,
to which sacrifices were offered beneath an ancient oak-tree, where
they were set up; but a terrible power grasped hold of him (though
himself all-powerful, the god of the nation which he ruled), those rude
graven images, carved by his own hands, that the people's force and
will might bow down before them as embodiments of a higher energy,
suddenly awoke into life. And what inflamed those senseless images thus
into life was the fire which the Satanic Prometheus stole from Hell.
Rebellious thralls of their Lord and Maker, those idols began to wield
against himself the weapons with which he had armed them. And thus
commences the monstrous conflict of the Superhuman principle with the
Human. I do not know if I have been intelligible to you--if I have
quite succeeded in representing to you the poet's colossal idea; but,
as Serapion Brethren, I would charge you to look deep down, as I have
done, into the terrible abyss which the poet has opened and disclosed,
and feel the terror and awe which overwhelms me even now as I think of
that Waidewuthis."
"And in truth," said Theodore, "our Cyprian has turned quite white;
which of course proves how the whole grand sketch of the extraordinary
picture which the poet displayed before him--but from which he has
shown us only one of the principal groups--has stirred his inner soul.
But, as regards Waidewuthis, I think it would have been sufficient to
say that the poet, with astonishing power and originality, conceived
this Daemon with so much grandeur, power, and might, so gigantic a
figure, that he appears quite worthy of the contest, and that the
triumph, the glory of Christianity must beam forth all the brighter in
consequence. It is true that in many of his characteristics, the old
monarch appears to me as if he were--to speak with Dante--the Imperador
del Doloroso Regno in person, walking on earth. The catastrophe of his
overthrow, that triumph of Christianity, which is the final chord
towards which everything strives, in the whole work (which to me, at
all events, according to the design of the second part, seems to belong
to another world), I have never been able to form a conception of to
myself in dramatic form; although in quite other sounds, and in those
only, I did conceive the possibility of a conclusion which, in terrific
sublimity, would surpass everything else which could be conceived of.
But this only became apparent to me when I had read Calderon's great
'Magus.' Moreover, the poet has not uttered himself as to the mode in
which he would finish the work; at least nothing of the sort has
reached my ears."
"It seems to me," said Vincent, "on the whole very much as though it
had gone with the poet, as to his work, as it did with old King
Waidewuthis and his graven images. It grew over his head; and that he
could not get control of his own power is proved by the very failure of
his inward energy, which, at length, does not allow anything sound,
healthy, vigorous, to come to the light of day. On the whole, even if
Cyprian is right in thinking that the old king had the best possible
dispositions for turning out a splendid and powerful Satan, I do not
see how he could have got into due relation with humanity again. The
Satan would have had to be, at the same time, a grand, powerful kingly
hero."
"And that is exactly what he was," answered Cyprian. "But to prove this
to you, I should require to know whole scenes by heart, which the
author communicated to us. I remember one in particular, very vividly,
which seemed to me magnificent. King Waidewuthis knew that none of his
sons would succeed him in the crown, so he selected a boy--I think he
appeared about twelve years old--as his successor. In the night they
two--Waidewuthis and the boy--are lying by the fire, and Waidewuthis.
occupies himself in kindling the boy's courage towards the idea of the
godly-might of the Euler of a People. This address of Waidewuthis
seemed to me quite masterly, quite perfect. The boy, who has a young
tame wolf, his faithful playmate, in his arms, listens attentively to
the old man's words; and when the latter at last asks him if, for the
sake of power he would be capable of sacrificing even his wolf, the boy
looks him gravely in the face, and without a word, throws the wolf into
the flames."
"I know," cried Theodore, as Vincent smiled strangely, and Lothair
seemed on the point of breaking out from inward impatience, "I know
what you are going to say--I hear the severe sentence of condemnation
with which you dismiss the author; and I will admit that I should have
perfectly agreed with you only a day or two ago, and been of the same
opinion, not so much from conviction, as from anger that the author
should have entered upon paths which must for ever carry him away from
me, Bo that a re-encounter between us must have appeared scarcely
conceivable, and moreover, almost not to be desired. It would have been
quite justifiable for the world, considering the manner in which the
author had commenced his career, to think that there was evidence of an
untruthful inconstancy--a weathercockiness--of mind, disposed to cast
over others the veil which self-deception had woven around him;
although, all this time, the truth had torn this veil asunder, with
rude vigour, so that the world could discern, in his heart, a wicked
spirit of self-seeking, endeavouring to gain the glitter of false fame
for purposes of self-beatification. But I am obliged to confess that
his preface to his sacred drama, 'The Mother of the Macabees,' has
completely disarmed me. And this preface can only be perfectly
understood by the few friends of his who were closely associated with
him in his most beautiful blossoming-time. It contains the most
affecting admissions of culpable weaknesses; the most pathetic
lamentations over powers for ever lost. Those things may have escaped
the writer involuntarily, and it is very likely that he did not,
himself, perceive that deeper significance which the friends whom he
had abandoned must have seen in those words. As I read this preface, I
seemed to see, through a dim, colourless ocean of cloud, rays feebly
piercing of a lofty, noble spirit, rising beyond the crack-brained
follies of immature perversity, and, if not fully conscious of its own
value, yet possessing a considerable inkling of its worth. The writer
seemed to me much like one of those who are victims of that form of
insanity of which the predominant symptom is 'fixed idea.' Those
unhappy people are, in their lucid intervals, aware of their delusions;
but, to soothe the comfortless horror of that consciousness, they
strive to convince themselves that in those very delusions their
highest and truest existence lives and moves. And this they do by the
most ingenious sophisms; striving also to induce themselves to believe
that their consciousness of their delusion is nothing but the sick
doubting of Humanity immeshed and enslaved in the Earthly. And in the
preface which I am speaking of, the writer touches upon the second part
of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee,' admitting this."
"Please don't make such horrible faces, Lothair! Sit still on your
chair, Ottmar; don't drum the Russian Grenadiers' March on the elbow of
your seat, Vincenz. I really think that the author of the 'Soehne des
Thales' deserves to be discussed rationally and quietly by us, and I
must confess that my heart is very full of this subject, and I cannot
help letting the froth which is seething there boil thoroughly over."
"Ha!" cried Vincenz, very loudly and pathetically, "how the froth
seethes!--now that is a quotation from the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee,' where
the heathen priests sing it in fearful and horrible strains. My dear
Serapion-Brother Theodore, you may rage, revile, curse and blaspheme
as much as you please, but I must just introduce into this many-sided
discussion one little anecdote, which will throw, at all events,
a momentary glimpse of sunshine over all those corpse-watchers'
countenances. The author of whom we are speaking had got together a few
friends that he might read to them the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' from the
manuscript. They had heard some passages from it before, which had
raised their expectations to the highest pitch. The author had, as
usual, seated himself in the centre of the circle, at a small table
where two candles were burning in tall candlesticks. He had taken his
manuscript out of his breast-pocket, and laid down before him his big
snuff-box, and his blue-and-white checked pocket-handkerchief. Profound
silence reigned. Not a breath was audible. The author, making one of
his extraordinary faces, which defy all description, began as
follows:--
"'Bankputtis!--Bankputtis!--Bankputtis!'
"Of course you remember that, in the opening scene, at the rising of
the curtain, the Prussians are discovered, assembled by the seashore,
collecting amber; and they invoke the deities who preside over this.
Very well. The author, as I have said, began with the words--
"'Bankputtis! Bankputtis!"
"Then there was a short pause; after which there came forth out of a
corner the soft voice of a member of the audience, saying: 'My dearest
and most beloved friend! Most glorious of all authors; if you have
written the whole of this most admirable poem of yours in that infernal
language, not one soul of us understands a single syllable of it. For
God's sake, be so kind as to start with a translation of it.'"
The friends laughed; but Cyprian and Theodore remained silent and
grave. Before the latter could begin to speak, Ottmar said: "It is
impossible, in this connection, that I should forget the extraordinary,
nay, almost preposterously absurd, meeting of two men who were--at all
events as concerned their opinions upon Art and their views about
it--absolutely heterogeneous in their natures. Indisputable as it may
be that Werner carried the idea of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' about with
him for a long time, to the best of my knowledge the first impulse to
his writing it came to him from Iffland, who was anxious that he should
write a tragedy for the Berlin stage. The 'Soehne des Thales' was then
attracting much attention, and perhaps that dramatic writer may have
been interested in this newly-developed talent, or he may have thought
he saw that this young _débutant_ was capable of being trained to the
performance of the systematic round of theatre tricks, and would
acquire a skilled 'stage-hand.' However this may be, think of Iffland
with the manuscript of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' in his hands.
Iffland--to whom the tragedies of Schiller (which then, in spite of all
opposition, had made their way, chiefly through the great Fleck) were
really disgustful, in the depths of his soul; Iffland, who although he
did not dare, for dread of that sharp lash which he had felt already,
to speak out his real opinion, had put _this_ in print: 'Tragedies
which contain grand historical incidents, and a crowd of characters,
are the ruin of the stage;' adding, 'on account of the tremendous
expenses,' but thinking, in his heart, '_dixi et salvavi_.'--Iffland,
who would have been too pleased to put upon his privy-councillors,
secretaries, and so forth, tragic _cothurni_ made after his own
pattern--read the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' in the light of its being a
tragedy expressly written for the Berlin stage, which he himself should
set out into scenes, and in which he should play nothing less than the
Ghost of Bishop Adalbert, murdered by the Pagan Prussians, very
frequently appearing on the stage as a terror-inspiring character not
sparing of partly edifying, partly mystic speeches, while at every
mention of the name of Christ a flame breaks out of his forehead, to
instantaneously disappear again. It was impossible to throw this piece
overboard (as would have been done in a moment in the case of the _dii
minores_), notwithstanding that it was one which was full of
improbabilities, and bristling with difficulties (much more real
difficulties from the stage-manager's point of view, than many
Shakesperian plays, in which those difficulties are more apparent than
real). What had to be done was to express great admiration of it; to
laud it up to the skies, and then to declare, with deep regret, that
the capabilities of the stage were not practically sufficient for the
production of a thing so great. It was this which had to be done; and
the letter in which Iffland stated all this to the author (the
construction of which was on the lines of the well-known form of
refusal of the Italians, '_ben parlato-ma_'), was, of course, a
classical master-piece of theatrical diplomacy. It was not from the
nature of the piece itself that the manager deduced the impossibility
of representing it on the stage; he merely, in a courteous manner,
complained of the stage-manager, the property-men, and the carpenters,
to whose magic there were such narrow limits that they were not even
capable of making a Saint's glory shine in the air. But, no more on the
subject. It is for Theodore to make such excuses as he can for the
errors of his friend."
"To defend and excuse this friend of mine," said Theodore, "I fear
would be a very unsatisfactory thing to try to do. I should much prefer
to set you a psychical problem to solve, which ought, really, to lead
you to consider how peculiar influences may work upon the psychical
organism; or, indeed (to return to Cyprian's simile, the worm
engendered along with the most beautiful flower), on the worm which is
to poison and kill. We are told Hysterism in the mother is not
transmitted, by heredity, to the son, but that it does produce in him a
peculiarly lively imagination, even to the extent of eccentricity; and
I believe that there is one of ourselves in whose case the correctness
of this theory is confirmed. Now, how might it be with the effect of
actual _insanity_ of the mother upon the son, although he does not, as
a rule, inherit that either? I am not speaking of that weak, childish
sort of mental aberration in women, which is often the result of an
enfeebled nervous system; what I have in view is that abnormal mental
state in which the psychic principle, volatilized into a sublimate by
the operation of the furnace of imagination, has been converted into a
poison, which has attacked the vital spirits, so that they have become
sick unto death, and the human creature, in the delirium of this
malady, believes the dream of another life-condition to be actual
waking reality. Now, a woman highly gifted mentally, and largely
endowed with imagination and fancy, may in those circumstances be much
more like to a heavenly prophet than to an insane creature, and in the
excitement of her paroxysms may say things, which to many persons would
appear much more like the direct inspiration of higher intelligences
than the mere utterances of insanity. Suppose that the fixed idea of
such a woman consisted in her believing herself to be the Virgin Mary,
and her son Christ, and let this be repeated daily to the boy, who is
not taken away from her, whilst his powers of comprehension gradually
develop themselves. He is over-bountifully endowed with talent and
intelligence, and specially with a glowing imagination. Friends and
teachers whom he respects and believes all tell him that his poor
mother is out of her mind, and he himself sees the craziness of the
idea, which is not so much as new to him, since it exists in nearly
every lunatic asylum. But his mother's words sink deeply into his
heart; he thinks he is hearing announcements from another world, and
feels vividly the belief taking root within him upon which he bases his
system of thinking. Above all, he is very much struck and imbued with
what the maternal prophetess tells him regarding the trials of this
world; the scoffing and despite which the consecrated one must endure.
He finds this all realized, and in his boyish melancholy looks upon
himself as a Divine victim, when his schoolfellows make fun of him for
his quaint-looking clothes and his timid awkward manners. What follows?
Must there not arise in the breast of such a youth the belief that the
so-called insanity of his mother, which seems to _him_ lofty and
sublime beyond the comprehension of the common herd, is really neither
more nor less than a prophetic announcement, in metaphorical language,
of the high destiny in store for him, chosen by the powers of heaven!
Saint--prophet!--could there be stronger impulses to mysticism for a
youth fired with a glowing power of imagination? Let it be further
supposed that he is physically and psychically excitable to the most
destructive extent, and apt to fall a prey to and be carried away by
the most irresistible tendency to vice, and the wicked lusts of the
world.... I desire to pass in haste, and with averted face, by the
fearful abysses of human nature whence the germs of those tendencies
spring, which might take root and flourish in the heart of the
unfortunate youth without his being further to blame than in that
he had a hot blood, only too congenial a soil for the luxuriant
poison-plant.... I dare not go further; you feel the terrible nature of
the strife which tears the heart of the unhappy youth. Heaven and hell
are drawn up in battle array; and it is this mortal combat imprisoned
within him which gives rise to phenomena on the surface in utter
discord with everything else conditioned by mortal nature, and capable
of no interpretation whatever. How, then, if the glowing power of
imagination of this man (who in youth imbibed the germ of those
eccentricities from his mother's mental state) should subsequently, at
a time when Sin, bereft of all her adornments, accuses herself, in all
her repulsive nakedness, for the hellish deceptions of the past, lead
him, driven by the pain and remorse of his repentance, to take refuge
in the mysticism of some religious _cultus_, coming to meet him with
hymns of victory and perfume of incense? How when then, out of the most
hidden depths, the voice of some dark spirit within should become
audible, saying: 'It was but mortal blindness which led you to believe
that there was dissension in your heart. The veil has fallen, and you
perceive that sin is the stigma of your heavenly nature, of your
supernatural calling, wherewith the Eternal has marked the chosen one.
It was only when you set yourself to offer resistance to sinful
impulse, to contend with the Eternal Power, that you were abandoned in
your blindness and degeneracy. The purified fires of hell shine in the
glories of the Saints.' And thus does this terrible hypermysticism
impart to the lost one a consolation which completes the ruin of the
rotten walls of the edifice of his existence; just as it is when the
madman derives comfort and enjoyment from his madness, that his
recovery is known to be hopeless."
"Oh, please go no further," cried Sylvester. "You hurried, with averted
face, past an abyss which you avoided looking into; but to me it seems
as if you were leading us along upon narrow, slippery paths, where
terrible and threatening gulfs yawn at us on either side. What you last
said reminded me of the horrible mysticism of Pater Molinos, the
dreadful doctrine of Quietism. I shuddered when I read the leading
theorem of that doctrine. 'Il ne faut avoir nul égard aux tentations,
ni leur opposer aucune résistance. Si la nature se meut, il faut la
laisser agir; ce n'est que la nature!'[1] This, of course, would
carry----"
[Footnote 1: "Toute opération active est absolument interdite par
Molinos. C'est même offenser Dieu, que de ne pas tellement s'abandonner
à lui, que l'on soit comme un corps inanimé. De-là vient, suivant cette
hérésiarque, que le v[oe]u de faire quelque bonne [oe]uvre est un
obstacle à la perfection, parce que l'activité naturelle est ennemie de
la grâce; c'est un obstacle aux opérations de Dieu et à la vraie
perfection, parce que Dieu veut agir en nous sans nous. Il ne faut
connoître ni lumière, ni amour, ni résignation. Pour être parfait, il
ne faut pas même connoître Dieu; il ne faut penser, ni au paradis, ni à
l'enfer, ni à la mort, ni à l'éternité. On ne doit point désirer de
sçavoir si on marche dans la volonté de Dieu, si on est assez résigné
ou non. En un mot, il ne faut point que l'âme connoisse ni son état ni
son néant; il faut qu'elle soit comme un corps inanimé. Toute réflexion
est nuisible, même celles qu'on fait sur ses propres actions, et sur
ses défauts. Ainsi on ne doit point s'embarrasser du scandale que l'on
peut causer, pourvu que l'on n'ait pas intention de scandaliser. Quand
une fois on a donné son libre arbitre à Dieu, on ne doit plus avoir
aucun désir de sa propre perfection, ni des vertus, ni de sa
sanctification, ni de son salut; il faut même se défaire de
l'espérance, parce qu'il faut abandonner à Dieu tout le soin de ce que
nous regarde, même celui de faire en nous et sans nous sa divine
volonté. Ainsi c'est une imperfection que de demander; c'est avoir une
volonté et vouloir que celle de Dieu s'y conforme. Par la même raison
il ne faut lui rendre grâce d'aucune chose; c'est le remercier d'avoir
fait notre volonté; et nous n'en devons point avoir." ('Causes
célèbres,' par Richer. Tom. ii.: 'Histoire du Procès de la Cadière.')]
"It would carry us a good deal too far," interrupted Lothair, "into the
realm of the most horrible dreams, and--to speak generally--of that
amount of crack-brainedness of which there can never be any question
amongst us Serapion Brethren. So let us abandon the subject of all that
sublimity of mental unhingedness which is the foster-mother of
religious mania."
Ottmar and Vincenz agreed in this, and added that Theodore had
committed a breach of Serapiontic rule by speaking so fully on a
subject to some extent strange to the other brethren, in this manner
giving himself up to impulses of the moment, and damming up the flow of
other communications.
Cyprian, however, look Theodore's part, maintaining that the subject on
which, for the most part, he had been speaking, might be thought to
possess such an amount of interest (though, as far as he himself was
concerned, he must say it was of an uncanny character) that even those
to whom the person to whom it had referred had never been known, could
not but feel themselves very much attracted and affected by it.
Ottmar thought that he could have felt a certain amount of interest
about it if it had been written in a book. Cyprian said that the
_sapienti sat_, was enough as regarded it.
In the meantime, Theodore had gone into the next room, and now came
back with a veiled picture, which he placed on a table against the
wall, setting two candles in front of it. All eyes were bent upon it,
and when Theodore quickly removed the cloth from before it an "Ah!"
came from all their lips.
It was the author of the 'Soehne des Thales,' a life-size half-length,
a most speaking likeness, as if it had been stolen out of a
looking-glass.
"Is it possible!" cried Ottmar, enthusiastically. "Yes, from under
those bushy eyebrows there gleams from the dark eyes the strange fire
of that unlucky mysticism which dragged the poet to his destruction.
But the goodness, the kindliness, the lovableness and the talents which
beam out of the rest of his features, and this charmingly 'roguish'
smile of real humour which plays about the lips, and seems to try
unsuccessfully to hide itself in the long, projecting chin, which the
hand is stroking so quietly. Of a truth I feel myself more and more
drawn to this mystic, who grows the more human the longer one looks at
him."
"We all feel the same," cried Lothair and Vincenz.
"Yes, yes," cried the latter, "those sorrowful, gloomy eyes get
brighter. You are right, Ottmar, he grows human--_homo factus est_.
See, he looks with his eyes--he smiles; presently he will say something
that will delight us; some heavenly jest; some fulminating sally of wit
is playing about his lips. Out with it, out with it, good Zacharias!
Stand on no ceremony! We are your friends, master of reserved irony!
Ha! Serapion Brethren! let us elect him, glasses in hand, an honorary
member of our Society; we will drink to our brotherhood, and I will
pour a libation before his picture, and bedew with a few glittering
drops my own varnished Parisian boots into the bargain."
The friends took their filled glasses in hand to carry out Vincenz's
suggestion.
"Stop!" cried Theodore. "Let me say a word or two first. To begin with,
I hope you will by no means apply that psychical problem of mine (which
I perhaps stated somewhat too forcibly) directly to our author here.
Rather take it that my object was to show you very vividly and
convincingly how dangerous it is to form conclusions about phenomena in
a man of which we know nothing as to their deep psychic origin; nay,
how heartless, as well as senseless, it is to persecute, with silly
scorn and childish derision, one who has been the victim of a
depressing influence, such as we ourselves would probably have resisted
less successfully. Who shall cast the first stone at one who has grown
defenceless because his strength has ebbed away with the heart's-blood
flowing from wounds inflicted by his own self-deception? My end is
gained now. Even you--Lothair, Ottmar, Vincenz, severe inflexible
critics and judges, have quite altered your opinions now that you have
seen my poet face to face. His face speaks truth. I must testify that,
in the happy days when he and I were friends, he was the most
delightful and charming of men in every relation of life. All the
oddities, and strange eccentricities of his exterior, and of his whole
being (which he himself, with delicate irony, tried to bring to light,
rather than to conceal) only produced the effect of rendering him, in
the most various surroundings and most diverse circumstances, always in
the most attractive manner, utterly delightful. Moreover, he was full
of a subtle humour which rendered him the worthy _confrère_ of Hamann,
Heppel, and Scheffner. It is impossible that all that blossom of
promise can be withered and dead, blighted by the poison breath of a
miserable infatuation. No! If that picture could come to life--if the
poet were to walk in and sit down actually amongst us here, life and
genius would coruscate out of his discourse as of yore. I fain would
hope that I see the dawn of a new and brilliant day! May the rays of
true wisdom break out more and more brightly; may recovered strength
and renewed power of labour produce work which shall show us the poet
in the pure glory of the verily inspired singer, even if it does not
happen before the late autumn of his days! And to this, ye Serapion
Brethren, let us drink in happy expectation."
The friends, forming a semicircle round the picture, clinked their
glasses together. "And then," said Vincenz, "it won't matter whether he
is Private Secretary, Abbé, or Privy Councillor, Cardinal, or the very
Pope; or even a Bishop _in partibus infidelium_, that's to say, of
Paphos!"
As was usually the case with Vincenz, he had without intending it, or
even being aware of it, stuck a comic tail on to a serious subject. But
the friends felt too strangely moved to pay particular attention to
this. They sat down again in silence at the table, while Theodore
carried the poet's picture back into the next room.
"I had meant," said Sylvester, "to read you this evening a story, for
the idea of which I am indebted to a strange chance, or rather, to a
strange remembrance. But it is so late that Serapiontic hours would be
long over before I had finished it."
"That is very much my case too," said Vincenz, "with my long-promised
tale, which I have got pressed against my heart here in the
breast-pocket of my coat (that usual _boudoir_ of literary productions)
like a pet child. It has sucked itself fat and lusty at the mother's
milk of my imagination, and has thereby got so forward and so talkative
that if I were to let it begin, it would go on till daybreak. So that
it must wait till the next meeting. To talk, I mean to converse,
appears dangerous to-night; for, before one knows where one is, some
heathen king, or Pater Molinos (or some _mauvais sujet_ or another of
the sort), suddenly sits in the midst of us, talking all kinds of
unintelligible nonsense. So that if either of us can out with a
manuscript with something amusing in it, I hope he will let us hear
it."
"If anything which any one of us may be able to produce to-night," said
Cyprian, "must seem to be nothing more than a stop-gap, or an
intermezzo between other melodies, I may pluck up courage to read
to you a trifle which I wrote down many years ago, when I had been
passing through a period of much mystery and some danger. I had
completely forgotten the existence of the pages in question, until they
accidentally came into my hands a short time ago, vividly recalling
the times to which they relate. My belief is that what led to the
production of this rather chimerical story is much more interesting
than the thing itself; and I shall have more to say on that subject
when I have finished it."
Cyprian read:
PHENOMENA.
When any allusion was made to the last siege of Dresden, Anselmus
turned even paler than he ordinarily was. He would fold his hands in
his lap--he would gaze before him, lost in melancholy memories--he
would murmur to himself,
"God of Heaven, were I to put my legs into my new riding-boots at the
proper time, and run across the bridge towards Neustadt, paying no
attention to burning straw, and the bursting shells, I have no doubt
that this great personage and the other would, put his head out of his
carriage window and say, with a polite bow, 'Come along, my good sir,
without any ceremony. I have room for you.' But there was I shut up and
hemmed in in the middle of the accursed Marmot's-burrow, all ramparts,
embankments, trenches, star-batteries, covered ways, &c., suffering
hunger and misery as much as the best of them. Didn't it come to this,
that if one happened to turn over the pages of a Roux's dictionary by
way of passing the time, and came upon the word 'Eat,' one's exhausted
stomach cried out in utter amazement, 'Eat? Now what does that mean?'
People who had once on a time been fat buttoned their skin over them,
like a double-breasted coat, a natural Spencer! Oh, heavens, if only
that Master of the Rolls--that Lindhorst--hadn't been there! Popowicz
of course wanted to kill me, but the Dolphin sprinkled marvellous
life-balsam out of its silver-blue nostrils. And Agafia!" When he spoke
this name, Anselmus was wont to get up from his seat, jump just a little,
once, twice, three times; and then sit down again. It was always quite
useless to ask him what he really meant, on the whole, by those
extraordinary sayings and grimaces. He merely answered, "Can I possibly
describe what happened with Popowicz and Agafia without being supposed
to be out of my mind?" And every one would laugh gently, as much as to
say, "Well, my good fellow, we suppose that whether or not."
One drear, cloudy October evening, Anselmus, who was understood to be
somewhere a long way off--came in at the door of a friend of his. He
seemed to be moved to the depths of his being, he was kindlier and
tenderer than at other times--almost pathetic. His humour (often
perhaps too wildly discursive, too universally antagonistic) was bowing
itself, tamed and bridled, before the mighty Spirit which had
possession of his inner soul. It had grown quite dark, the friend
wanted to send for lights. But Anselmus, taking hold of both his arms,
said: "If you would, for once, do me a real favour, don't have lights
brought. Let's be content with the dim shining of that Astral lamp
which is sending its glimmer from the closet there. You can do what you
please--drink tea, smoke tobacco, but don't smash any cups, or throw
lighted matches on to my new trousers. Either of those things would not
only pain me, but would make an unnecessary noise and disturbance in
the enchanted garden into which I have at last managed to get to-day,
and in which I am enjoying myself to my soul's content. I shall go and
lie on that sofa."
He did so. After a considerable pause, he began:
"To-morrow morning at eight o'clock it will be exactly two years since
Count von der Lobau marched out from Dresden with twelve thousand men
and four-and-twenty guns, to fight his way to the Meissner Hills."
"Well," said his friend, "I have been sitting here on the stretch of an
expectation, almost of a devout description, thinking I was going to
hear of some celestial manifestation, coming hovering out of your
enchanted garden--and this is all? What interest do I take in Count von
der Lobau and his expedition? And fancy you remembering that there were
just twelve thousand men and four-and-twenty guns. When did military
details of the sort begin to effect a lodgment in that head of yours?"
"Are those days of mystery and fatality," said Anselmus, "which we
passed through so short a time ago so completely forgotten by you that
you no longer recollect the manner in which the armed monster grasped
us and drove us? The _noli turbare_ no longer held in check our own
exertions of force, and we would not _be_ held in check or protected,
for in every heart the demon made deep wounds, and, driven by wild
torture, every hand grasped the unfamiliar sword, not for defence,
no--for attack, that the hateful ignominy might be atoned for, and
revenged, by Death! Even at this hour there comes upon me, in bodily
form of flesh and blood, that power which was active in those days
of darkness, and drove me forth from art and science into that
blood-stained tumult. Was it possible, do you think, for me to go on
sitting at my desk? I hurried up and down the streets, I followed the
troops when they marched out, as far as I dared, merely to see with my
own eyes as much as I could, and from what I Baw to gather some hope,
paying no heed to the miserable, deceptive, proclamations and news
'from the seat of war.' Very good. When at length that battle of all
battles was fought, when all round us every voice was shouting for joy
at new-won freedom, whilst we were still lying in chains of slavery, I
felt as if my heart would break. I felt as though I must gain air and
freedom, for myself and all who were chained to the stake along with
me, by means of some terrible deed. It may seem to you now, and with
the knowledge of me which you think you possess, incredible and
ludicrous; but I can assure you that I went about with the idea in my
mind, the insane idea, that I would set a match to some fort which I
knew the enemy had got well-stocked with powder, and blow it into the
air."
The friend could not help smiling a little at the wild heroism of the
unwarlike Anselmus. The latter, however, could not see this, as it was
dark; and after a few moments' silence he proceeded as follows. "You
have all of you often said that a peculiar planet which presides over
me has a manner of bringing marvellous matters about my path on
occasions of importance, matters in which people do not believe and
which often seem to myself as if they proceeded out of my own inner
being, although there they are, outside of me also, taking form as
mystic symbols of that element of the marvellous which we find all
about us everywhere in life. It was so with me this day two years ago
in Dresden. That long day had dragged itself out in dull, mysterious
silence; everything was quiet outside the gate--not a shot to be heard.
Late in the evening--it might have been about ten o'clock, I slunk into
a coffee house in the old market, where, in an out-of-the-way back room
into which none of the hated foreigners were allowed to penetrate,
friends of like minds and opinions gave each other reassurance of
comfort and hope. It was there where, notwithstanding all the lies
which were current, the true news of the engagements at the Katzbach,
Culm, &c., were first received, where our R. told us of the victory at
Leipzig two days after it happened, though God knows how he obtained
his knowledge of it. My way had led me past the Brühl Palace, where the
Field Marshal was quartered, and I had been struck by the unusual
lighting-up of the salons, as well as the stir going on all over the
house. I was just mentioning this to my friends, with the remark that
the enemy must have something in hand, when R. came hurrying in,
breathless, and in great excitement. 'Hear the latest thing,' he began
at once. 'There has been a Council of War at the Field Marshal's.
General Mouton (Count von der Lobau) is going to fight his way to
Meissen with twelve thousand men and four-and-twenty guns. He marches
out this morning.' After a good deal of discussion we at last adopted
R.'s opinion that this attack, which, from the unceasing watchfulness
of our friends outside, might very probably be disastrous to the enemy,
would very likely force the Field Marshal to capitulate, and so put a
period to our miseries. "How," thought I, as I was going home about
midnight, "can R. have found out what the decision come to was almost
at the very moment it was arrived at?" However, I was presently aware
of a hollow, rumbling sound making itself audible through the deathly
stillness of the night. Guns and ammunition waggons, well loaded up
with forage, began passing slowly by me in the direction of the Elbe
bridge. "R. was right then," I had to say to myself. I followed the
line of their march and got as far as the centre of the bridge, where
there was at that time a broken arch, temporarily repaired with wooden
beams and scaffolding. At each side of this construction was a species
of fortification, constructed of high palisading and earth-works. Here,
close to this fortification, I took up my position, pressing myself
close to the balustrade of the bridge so as not to be seen. It now
seemed to me that the tall palisades began moving backwards and
forwards, and bending over towards me, murmuring hollow, unintelligible
words. The deep darkness of the cloudy night prevented my seeing
anything clearly; but when the troops had crossed, and all was as still
as death on the bridge, I could make out that there was a deep,
oppressed breathing near me, and a faint, mysterious whimpering or
whining--one of the dark, scarcely distinguishable baulks of the timber
was rising into a higher position. An icy horror fell upon me, and,
like a man tortured in a nightmare dream, firmly fettered by leaded
clamps, I could not move a muscle. The night-breeze rose, wafting mists
about the hills: the moon sent feeble rays through rents in the clouds.
And I saw, not far from me, the figure of a tall old man with silvery
hair and a long beard. The mantle which fell over his haunches he had
cast across his breast in numerous heavy folds. With his long, white
naked arm he was stretching a staff far out over the river. It was from
him that the murmuring and whimpering proceeded. At that moment I heard
the sound of marching coming from the town, and I saw the sheen of
arms. The old man cowered down, and began to whimper and lament, in a
pitiful voice, holding out a cap to those who were coming over the
bridge, as if asking for alms. An officer, laughing, cried, "_Voilà
St. Pierre, qui veut pêcher!_" The one who came next stopped, and said
very gravely, "_Eh bien! Moi, pêcheur, je lui aiderai à pêcher._"
Several officers and soldiers, quitting the ranks, threw the old man
money, sometimes silently, sometimes with gentle sighs, like men in
expectation of death; and he, then, always nodded from side to side
with his head in a curious way, uttering a sort of hollow cry of a
singular description. At length an officer (in whom I recognized
General Mouton) came so very close to the old man that I thought his
foaming charger would tramp upon him; and, turning quickly to his
aide-de-camp, as he thrust his hat more firmly down on to his head, he
asked him, in a loud excited voice, "_Qui est cet homme?_" "The escort
which was in attendance on him stood motionless; but an old, bearded
sapper, who was passing with his axe on his shoulder, said, calmly and
gravely, "_C'est un pauvre maniaque bien connû ici. On l'appelle St.
Pierre Pêcheur._" On that the force passed on across the bridge, not as
at other times, full of foolish jesting, but in dispirited ill-temper
and gloom. As the last sound of them died away, and the last gleam of
their arms disappeared, the old man slowly reared himself up, and stood
with uplifted head and staff outstretched, like some miraculous saint
ruling the stormy water. The waves of the river rose into mightier and
mightier billows, as if stirred from their depths. And I seemed to hear
a hollow voice, coming up from amidst those rushing waters, and saying
in the Russian language.
"Michael Popowicz! Michael Popowicz! Do you not see the fireman?"
The old man murmured to himself. He seemed to be praying. But suddenly
he cried out, "Agafia!" And at that moment his face glowed in blood-red
fire which seemed to be shooting up at him out of the Elbe. On the
Meissner Hills great fluttering flames blazed up into the sky; their
reflection shone into the river, and upon the old man's face. And now,
close beside me upon the bridge, there began to be audible a sort of
plashing and splashing, and I saw a dim form climbing up arduously, and
presently swing itself over the balustrade with marvellous dexterity.
"Agafia?" the old man cried.
"Girl! Dorothea! In the name of heaven," I was beginning, but in an
instant I felt myself clasped hold of, and forcibly drawn away. "Oh,
for Christ's sake keep silence, dearest Anselmus, or you are a dead
man," whispered the creature who was standing close to me, trembling
and shivering with cold. Her long black hair hung down dripping, her
sodden garments were clinging to her slender body. She sank down
exhausted, saying, in tones of gentle complaining, "Oh, it is so cold
down there! Do not say another word, Anselmus dearest, or we must
certainly die."
The light of the flames was glowing upon her face, and I saw that she
was Dorothea, the pretty country girl who had taken asylum with my
landlord when her native village was plundered, and her father killed.
He employed her as a servant, and used to say that her troubles had
quite stupefied her, or otherwise she would have been a nice enough
little thing. And he was right there. She scarcely spoke, except to
utter a few words which sounded like incoherent nonsense, whilst her
face, which would otherwise have been beautiful, was marred by a
strange unmeaning smile. She used to bring my coffee into my room every
morning, and I remarked that her figure, complexion, &c., were not at
all those of a peasant girl. "Ah," my landlord used to say, "you see
she's a farmer's daughter, and a Saxon."
As this girl was thus lying, rather than kneeling before me, half dead,
dripping, I quickly pulled off my cloak and wrapped her in it,
whispering to her, "Warm yourself, dear, oh, warm yourself, darling
Dorothea, or you will die! What were you doing in the cold river?"
"Oh, keep silent!" she said, throwing back the hood of her mantle, and
combing her dripping hair back with her fingers. "What I implore you to
do is to keep silent. Come to that stone seat yonder. Father is
speaking with Saint Andrew, and can't hear us."
We crept cautiously to the stone seat. Utterly carried away by the most
extraordinary sensations, overmastered by fear and rapture, I clasped
the creature in my arms. She sat down in my lap without hesitation, and
threw her arms about my neck. I felt the icy water from her hair
running down my neck; but as drops sprinkled on fire only increase its
flaming, love and longing only seethed up within me the more
vehemently.
"Anselmus," she whispered, "I believe you are good and true. When you
sing it goes right through my heart, and you have charming ways. You
won't betray me. Who would get you your coffee if you did? And, listen,
when you are all starving (and you soon will be), I'll come to you at
night, all alone, when nobody can know, and bake you nice cakes. I have
flour, fine flour, hidden away in my little room. And we'll have
bridecake, white and lovely!" At this she began to laugh, but
immediately sobbed and wept. "Ah me! like those in Moskow. Oh! my
Alexei! my Alexei! Beautiful dolphin, swim! Swim through the waves! Am
I not waiting for you, your faithful love?" She drooped her little
head, her sobs grew fainter, and she seemed to sink into a slumber, her
bosom heaving and falling in sighs of longing. I looked at the old man.
He was standing with outstretched arms, and saying, in hollow tones,
"He gives the signal! See how he shakes his fiery locks of flame; how
eagerly he treads into the ground those fiery pillars on which he
traverses the land! Hear ye not his step of thunder? Feel ye not the
vivifying breath which wreathes before him like a gleaming incense
cloud? Hither! hither! mighty brethren!"
The sound of the old man's words was like the hollow roar of the
approaching whirlwind, and while he spoke, the fire upon the Meissner
Hills blazed brighter and brighter. "Help, Saint Andrew!" the girl
cried in her sleep. And suddenly she sprung up as if possessed by some
terrible idea, and throwing her left arm more closely round me,
whispered into my ear, "Anselmus! it would be better that I killed
you," and I saw a knife gleaming in her right hand. I repulsed her in
terror, with a loud cry of, "Mad creature! What would you do?" Then she
screamed out, "Ah, I cannot do it! But all is over with you now!" At
that moment the old man cried, "Agafia, with whom are you speaking?"
And ere I could bethink me, he was close to me, aiming a stroke with
his swung staff at me which would have cleft my skull in two had not
Agafia seized me from behind and drawn me quickly away. The staff
splintered into a thousand pieces on the stone bench. The old man fell
on his knees. "Allons! allons!" resounded from all sides. I had to
collect my thoughts, and spring quickly to one side to avoid being
crushed by the guns and ammunition waggons which were again coming
across.
Next morning the Russians drove this expeditionary force down from the
hills, and back into the fortifications, notwithstanding the
superiority of its numbers. "'Tis a strange thing," people said, "that
our friends outside were informed of the enemy's plans, for that signal
fire on the Meissner Hills had the effect of assembling the troops, so
that they might make a resistance in force, just at the very time and
place where he intended to concentrate his attacking bodies."
For several days Dorothea did not come in the morning with my coffee;
and my landlord, pale with terror, told me had seen her, along with the
mad beggar of the Elbe bridge, marched off from the marshal's quarters
to Neustadt under a strong escort.
"Oh, good heavens!" said Anselmus's friend, "they were discovered and
executed."
But Anselmus gave a strange smile and said, "Agafia got away; and,
alter the Peace was signed, I received, from her own hands, a beautiful
white wedding-cake of her own making."
The reticence of Anselmus was proof against every effort to induce him
to say anything more concerning this astonishing affair.
When Cyprian had finished, Lothair said, "You told us that the events
which suggested this sketch would be more interesting than it is
itself; so that I consider those suggesting circumstances are an
essential part of it, without which it is not complete. Therefore, I
think you ought at once to give us your why and wherefore, as a sort of
explanatory note."
"Does it not seem to you to be as unusual as remarkable," said Cyprian,
"that all that I have read to you is literally true, and that even the
little 'wind up,' has its kernel of actuality?"
"Let us hear!" the friends cried.
"To begin with," said Cyprian, "I must tell you that the fate which
befell Anselmus in my sketch was actually my own, as well. My being ten
minutes late decided my destiny, so that I was shut up in Dresden just
as it was surrounded on all sides. It is a fact that after the battle
of Leipzig, when our condition became more painful and trying day by
day, certain friends, or mere acquaintances, whom a similar lot and a
like way of thinking had drawn together, used to assemble in the back
room of a coffee-house, much as the disciples did at Emmaus. The
landlord, one Eichelkraut, was a reliable, trustworthy man, who made no
secret of his hostility to the French, and always obliged them to treat
him with proper respect and keep their due distance from him when they
came in as customers. No Frenchman was allowed to make his way into
that backroom on any pretext, and if one did succeed in showing his
nose there, he could never get a morsel to eat, or a drop to drink, let
him implore, or swear, as much as he liked. Moreover, the room was
always as silent as the grave, and we all blew such stifling clouds out
of our pipes that the place soon became so full of the exhalation that
a Frenchman would be very soon smoked out, like a wasp, and usually
went growling and swearing out of the door like one. As soon as he did,
the window would be opened to let the reek out, and we would be
restored to our peace and comfort again. The life and soul of those
meetings was a well-known talented and charming writer: and I remember
with great pleasure how he and I used to get upstairs to the upper
story of the house, look out of the little garret window into the
night, and see the enemy's bivouac fires shining in the sky. We used to
say to each other all sorts of wonderful things which the shimmer of
those fires, combined with the moonlight, used to put into our heads,
and then go down and tell our friends what we imagined we had seen. It
is a fact that one night one of our number (an advocate) who was always
the first to hear any news, and whose reports were always reliable
(heaven knows whence he derived his information), came in and told us
the decision which had just been come to by the council of war
concerning the expedition of Count von der Lobau, exactly as I have
repeated it to you. It is likewise true that as I was going home about
midnight, while the French battalions were falling-in in profound
silence (no _generale_ being beaten) and beginning their march over the
bridge, I met ammunition waggons, so that I could have no doubt of the
accuracy of his information. And lastly, it is the fact that, on the
bridge, there was a grey old beggar lying, begging from the French
troops as they crossed, whom I could not remember having seen in
Dresden before. Last of all it is the fact, and the most wonderful of
all, that when, much interested and excited, I reached my own quarters,
on climbing up to the top story I _did_ see a fire on the Meissner
Hills, which was neither a watch fire nor a burning building. The
sequel showed that the Russians must have known that night all about
the attack intended to be made on the following morning, inasmuch as
they concentrated troops which had been at a considerable distance upon
the Meissner Hills, and it was principally Russian Landwehr which drove
the French back as a storm sweeps a field of stubble. When the remnant
of them fell back into the fortifications, the Russians quietly marched
off to their previous positions. So that at the very time when the
council of war was held at Gouvion de St. Cyr's, the decision which it
arrived at was communicated to, or, more probably, overheard by persons
who were not supposed to have this in their power. Strangely enough,
the advocate knew every detail of the deliberation; for instance, that
Gouvion was opposed to the expedition, and only yielded lest he might
be thought wanting in courage, in a case where rapidity of decision was
a desideratum. Count von der Lobau was determined to march out and
endeavour to cut his way to the emperor's army. But how did the
surrounding force know so soon of what was projected? For they knew of
it in the course of an hour. Not only was it apparently impossible to
get across the strongly fortified bridge; and if not, the river would
have had to be swum, and the various trenches and walls got over.
Moreover, the whole of Dresden was palisaded, and carefully guarded by
sentries, to a considerable distance round. Where was the possibility
of any human being surmounting all those obstacles in such a short
space of time! One might think of telegraphic signals, made by means of
lights from some tall tower or loftily situated house. But consider the
difficulty of carrying that out, and the risk of detection, for such
signals would have been easily seen. At all events it remains an
incomprehensible thing how what actually happened came to pass; and
that is enough to suggest to a lively imagination all sorts of
mysterious and sufficiently extraordinary hypotheses to account for
it."
"I bow my knee in deep reverence before Saint Serapion," said Lothair;
"and before the most worthy of his disciples, and I am quite sure that
a Serapiontic account of the important incidents of the war, as seen by
him, if given in his characteristic style, would be exceedingly
interesting, as well as very instructive, to imaginative members of the
profession of arms. At the same time I have little doubt that the
incidents in question came about quite naturally, and in the ordinary
course of events. But you had to get your landlord's servant-girl, the
pleasing Dorothea, into the water, as a sort of deluding Nixie; and
she----"
"Don't jest about that," Cyprian said, very solemnly. "Don't make jokes
on that subject, Lothair. At this moment I see that beautiful creature
before my eyes, that lovely terrible mystery (I do not know what other
name to call her by). It was I who had that bridecake sent to me;
glittering in diamonds, flashing like lightning, wrapped in priceless
sables----"
"Listen," cried Vincenz. "We are getting at it now. The Saxon
maid-servant--the Russian Princess--Moskow--Dresden-- Has not Cyprian
always spoken in the most mysterious language, and with the most
recondite allusions, of a certain period of his life just after the
first French war? It is coming out now! Speak! Let all your heart
stream forth, my Cyprianic Serapion and Serpiontic Cyprian."
"And how if I keep silence?" answered Cyprian, suddenly drawing in his
horns, and growing grave and gloomy. "And how if I am obliged to keep
silence? And I _shall_ keep silence!"
He spoke those words in a strangely solemn and exalted tone, leaning
back in his chair, and fixing his eyes on the ceiling, as was his wont
when deeply moved.
The friends looked at one another with questioning glances.
"Well," said Lothair at last, "it seems that somehow our meeting of
to-night has fallen into a strange groove of ill-fortune, and it appears
to be hopeless to expect any comfort or enjoyment out of it. Suppose we
have a little music, and sing some absurd stuff or other as vilely as
we can."
"Yes," said Theodore, "that is the thing." And he opened the piano. "If
we don't manage a canon--which, according to Junker Tobias is a thing
which can reel three souls out of a weaver's body--we will make it
awful enough to be worthy of Signor Capuzzi and his friends. Suppose we
sing an Italian _Terzetto buffo_ out of our own heads. I'll be the
prima donna, and begin. Ottmar will be the lover, and Lothair had
better be the comic old man, and come in, raging and swearing in rapid
notes."
"But the words, the words," said Ottmar.
"Sing whatever you please," said Theodore; "Oh Dio! Addio! Lasciami mia
Vita."
"No, no," cried Vincenz. "If you won't let me take part in your
singing--although I feel that I possess a wonderful talent for it,
which only wants the voice of a Catalani to produce itself in the
work-a-day world with drastic effect, allow me at least to be your
librettist--your poet-laureate. And here I hand you your libretto at
once."
He had found on Theodore's writing-table the 'Indice de Teatrali
Spettacoli' for 1791, and this he handed to Theodore. This indice, like
all which appear yearly in Italy, merely contained a list of the titles
of the operas performed, with the names of their composers, and of the
singers, scene-painters, &c., concerned in their production. They
opened the page which related to the opera in Milan, and it was decided
that the prima donna should sing the names of the lover-tenors (with a
due interspersing of Ah Dio's and Oh Cielo's), that the lover-tenor
should sing the names of the prima donnas in like manner, and that the
comic old man should come in, in his furious wrath, with the titles of
the operas which had been given and an occasional burst of invective,
appropriate to his character.
Theodore played a _ritornello_ of the cut and pattern which occurs by
the hundred in the opera buffas of the Italians, and then began to sing
in sweet, tender strains "Lorenzo Coleoni! Gaspare Rossari! Oh Dio!
Giuseppo Marelli! Francesco Sedini!" &c. Ottmar followed with "Giuditta
Paracca! Teresa Ravini! Giovanna Velata--Oh Dio!" &c. And Lothair burst
duly in with rapid, angry quavers: "Le Gare Generose, del Maestro
Paesiello--Che vedo? La Donna di Spirito, del Maestro Mariella.
Briconaccio! Piro, Re di Epiro! Maledetti!--del Maestro Zingarelli,"
&c.
This singing, which Lothair and Ottmar accompanied with appropriate
gesticulations (Vincenz illustrating Theodore's impersonations with the
most preposterous grimaces imaginable), warmed up the friends more and
more. In a comic description of enthusiastic inspiration each seized
the drift of the other's ideas. All the passages, imitations, &c. (to
use musical expressions), usually employed in compositions of this
description, were reproduced with the utmost accuracy--so that any one
who had come in by accident would never have dreamt that this
performance was improvised on the spur of the moment, even if the
strange hotch-potch of names had struck him as curious.
Louder and more unrestrainedly raged this outbreak of Italian _rabbia_,
until (as may be supposed), it culminated in a wild, universal burst of
laughter, in which even Cyprian joined.
At their parting, on this evening, the friends were in a condition of
wild enjoyment, rather than (as was the case on other occasions), lull
of rational delight.
SECTION EIGHT.
The Serapion Brethren had assembled for another meeting.
"I must be greatly mistaken," said Lothair, "and be anything but the
possessor of a native genius (supplemented by assiduous practice) for
physiognomy--such as I believe that I do possess, if I do not read very
distinctly in the face of every one of us (not excepting my own, which
I see magically gleaming at me in yonder mirror), that our minds are
all fully charged with matter of importance, and only waiting for the
word of command to fire it off. I am rather afraid that more than one
of us may have got shut up in one or other of his productions one of
those eccentric little firework devils which may come fizzling out,
dart backwards and forwards about the room, banging and jumping, and
not manage to pop out of the window until it has managed to give us all
a good singeing. I even dread a continuation of our last conversation,
and may Saint Serapion avert that from us! But lest we should fall
immediately into those wild, seething waters, and that we may commence
our meeting in a duly calm and rational frame of mind, I move that
Sylvester begins by reading to us that story which we could not hear on
the last occasion because there was no time left."
This proposal was unanimously agreed to.
"The woof which I have spun," said Sylvester, producing a manuscript,
"is composed of many threads, of the most various shades, and the
question in my mind is whether--on the whole--you will think it has
proper colour and keeping. It was my idea that I should, perhaps, put
some flesh and blood into what I must admit, is a rather feeble body,
by contributing to it something out of a great, mysterious period--to
which it really does but serve as a sort of framework."
Sylvester read:--
THE MUTUAL INTERDEPENDENCE OF THINGS.
A tumble over a root as a portion of the system of the universe--Mignon
and the gypsy from Lorca, in connection with General Palafox--A
Paradise opened at Countess Walther Puck's.
"No!" said Ludwig to his friend Euchar, "no! There is no such lubberly,
uncouth attendant on the goddess of Fortune as Herr Tieck has been
pleased to introduce in the prologue to his second part of 'Fortunat,'
who, in the course of his gyrations, upsets tables, smashes ink-bottles,
and goes blundering into the President's carriage, hurting his head and
his arm. No! For there is no such thing as chance. I hold to the opinion
that the entire universe, and all that it contains, and all that comes
to pass in it--the complete macrocosm--is like some large, very ingeniously
constructed piece of clockwork-mechanism, which would necessarily come
to a stop in a moment if any hostile principle, operating wholly
involuntarily, were permitted to come in contact--in an opposing
sense--with the very smallest of its wheels."
"I don't know, friend Ludwig," said Euchar, laughing, "how it
is that you have come, all of a sudden, to adopt this wretched,
mechanical theory--which is as old as the hills, and out of date long
ago--disfiguring and distorting Goethe's beautiful notion of the red
thread which runs all through our lives--in which, when we think about
it in our more lucid moments, we recognize that higher Power which
works above, and in us."
"I have the greatest objection to that simile," said Ludwig. "It is
taken from the British navy. All through the smallest rope in their
ships (I know this, of course, from the Wahlverwandschaften), runs a
small red thread, which shows that the rope is Government property. No,
my dear friend! Whatever happens is pre-ordained, from the beginning,
as an essential necessity, just because it does happen. And this is the
Mutual Interdependence of Things, upon which rests the principle of all
being, of all existence. Because, as soon as you----"
However, it is necessary, at this point, to explain to the courteous
reader that as Ludwig and Euchar were thus talking together, they were
walking in an alley of the beautiful park at W----. It was a Sunday.
Twilight was beginning to fall, the evening breeze was whispering in
the branches which, reviving after the heat of the day, were exhaling
gentle sighs. Among the woods were sounding the happy voices of
townsfolk in their Sunday clothes, out for the afternoon, some of them
lying in the sweet grass enjoying their simple supper, and others
refreshing themselves in the various restaurants, in accordance with
the winnings of their week.
Just as Ludwig was going on to explain more fully the profound theory
of the mutual interdependence of things, he stumbled over the thick
root of a tree, which (as he always wore spectacles) he had not seen;
and he measured his length on the ground.
"_That_ was comprehended in the mutual interdependence of things," said
Euchar gravely and quietly, lifting up his friend's hat and stick, and
giving him his hand to help him on to his legs again. "If you had not
pitched over in that absurd manner the world would have come to a stop
at once."
But Ludwig felt his right knee so stiff that he was obliged to limp,
and his nose was bleeding freely. This induced him to take his
friend's advice and go into the nearest restaurant, though he
generally avoided these places, particularly on Sundays. For the
jubilations of the Sunday townsfolk were exceptionally displeasing to
him, giving him a sensation of being in places which were not by any
means _convenable_--at all events for people of his position.
In the front of this restaurant the people had formed a deep,
many-tinted ring, from the interior of which there Bounded the tones
of a guitar and a tambourine. Ludwig, assisted by his friend, went
limping into the house, holding his handkerchief to his face. And he
begged so pitifully for water, and a little drop of wine-vinegar,
that the landlady, much alarmed, thought he must be at the point of
death. Whilst he was being served with what he required, Euchar (on
whom the sounds of the guitar and tambourine exercised an irresistible
fascination) crept forth, and endeavoured to penetrate into the closed
circle. He belonged to that restricted class of Nature's favourites
whose exterior and whole being ensure a kindly reception everywhere,
and in all circumstances. So that on this occasion some journeymen
mechanics (people who are not usually much given to politeness of a
Sunday) at once made room for him when he asked what was going forward,
so that he as well as themselves might have a look at the strange
little creature who was dancing and playing so prettily and cleverly.
And a curious and delightful scene displayed itself to Euchar, which
fettered all his mind and attention.
In the middle of the ring a girl with her eyes blindfolded was dancing
the fandango amongst nine eggs, arranged three by three behind each
other on the ground, and playing a tambourine as she danced. At one
side stood a little deformed man, with an ill-looking gypsy face,
playing the guitar. The girl who was dancing seemed to be about
fifteen. She was oddly dressed in a red bodice, gold-embroidered, and a
short white skirt trimmed with ribbons of various colours. Her figure
and all her motions were the very ideal of elegance and grace. She
brought the most marvellous variety of sounds out of her tambourine.
Sometimes she would raise it above her head, and then hold it out in
front of her or behind her, with her arms stretched out, in the most
picturesque attitudes. Now it would sound like a far-off drum; now like
the melancholy cooing of the turtle-dove, and presently like the
distant roar of the approaching storm. All this was accompanied in the
most delightful manner by the tinkling of the clear, harmonious bells.
And the little guitar-player by no means fell short of her in
virtuosity; for he, too, had quite a style of his own of treating his
instrument--making the dance melody (which was a most characteristic
one, wholly out of the common run of such things) predominate at times,
loud and clear, and hushing it down at other times into a mysterious
piano, striking the strings with the palms of his hand (as the
Spaniards do in producing that peculiar effect), and presently dashing
out bright-sounding, full harmonies. The tambourine went on
_crescendo_, as the guitar-strings clanged louder and louder, and the
girl's boundings increased in their scope in a similar ratio. She would
set down her foot within a hair's-breadth of the eggs with the most
complete certainty and confidence, so that the spectators could not
help crying out, thinking that one of those fragile things must
infallibly be broken. Her black hair had fallen down, and it flew about
her head, giving her much the effect of a Mænad. The little fellow
cried out to her in Spanish, "Stop!" And on this, while still going on
with her dance, she lightly touched each of the eggs, so that they
rolled together into a heap; upon which, with a loud beat on her
tambourine and a forcible chord on the guitar, she came to a sudden
standstill, as if banned there by some spell. The dance was done.
The little fellow went up to her and undid the cloth which bound her
eyes. She rolled up her hair, took the tambourine, and went round
amongst the spectators, with downcast looks, to collect their
contributions. Not one had slunk off out of the way. Every one, with a
face of pleasure, put a piece of money into that tambourine. When she
came to Euchar, and as he was going to put something into it, she made
a sign of refusal.
"May not I give you anything?" he said.
She looked up at him, and the glowing fire of her loveliest of eyes
flashed through the night of her black silken lashes.
"The old man," she said gravely--almost solemnly--in her deep voice,
and with her foreign accent, "told me that you, sir, did not come till
the best part of my dance was done; and so I ought not to take anything
from you." Thus speaking she made Euchar a pretty courtesy, and went to
the little man, taking the guitar from his hands, and going with him to
a table at some distance.
When Euchar looked round him, he perceived Ludwig sitting not far off,
between two respectable townsfolk, with a great glass of beer before
him, making the most earnest signs. Euchar went to him, saying, with a
laugh, "Why, Ludwig, when did you take to drinking beer?" Ludwig,
however, made signals to him, and said, in meaning accents, "What do
you say? Beer is one of the most delicious of drinks, and I delight in
it above all things--when it is so magnificent as it is here."
The citizens rose, and Ludwig shook hands with them most politely,
putting on a look which was half-pleased, half-annoyed, when they
expressed at parting their regret for his mishap.
"You are always getting me into hot water with your want of tact," he
said. "If I hadn't allowed myself to be treated to a glass of beer, if
I hadn't managed to gulp the abominable trash down--those sturdy
counter-jumpers would probably have been offended, and would have
looked upon me as one of the profane. Then you must needs come and
bring me into discredit, when I had been playing my part so very
nicely."
"Well," said Euchar, "if you had been bowed out of their company, or
even come in for a little touch of cudgelling, wouldn't it all have
been a part of the mutual interdependence of things? But just listen as
I tell you what a charming little drama your trip over the tree-root
(predestined, according to the conditions of the Macrocosmus, to occur)
gave me an opportunity of seeing."
And he told him about the charming egg dance by the Spanish girl.
"Mignon!" cried Ludwig enthusiastically. "Heavenly, divine Mignon!"
The guitarist was sitting not far off, at a table, counting the
receipts, and the girl was standing beside him, squeezing an orange
into a glass of water. Presently the old man put the money together,
and nodded to the girl with eyes sparkling with gladness, whilst she
handed him the orange-water, and stroked his wrinkled cheeks. He gave a
disagreeable, cackling laugh, and gulped down the liquid with every
indication of thirst. The girl sat down and began tinkling on the
guitar. "Oh Mignon!" cried Ludwig again. "Heavenly, divine Mignon! Ah,
I shall rescue her, like another Wilhelm Meister, from the thraldom of
this accursed miscreant who holds her in bondage!" "How do you know,"
asked Euchar, "that this little hunchback is an accursed miscreant?"
"Cold creature!" answered Ludwig. "Cold, passionless creature, you
understand nothing, you have no sympathy with anything, no sense of the
genial, the imaginative. Don't you see--don't you comprehend how every
description of the most insulting contempt, envious feeling,
wickedness, ill-temper, and avarice of the vilest kind gleam out of the
green, cat's-eyes of that little gypsy abortion--are legible in every
wrinkle of his diabolical-looking face? Yes! I am going to rescue that
beautiful child out of the clutches--the Satanic clutches--of that
brown monster! If I could only have a talk with her, the little
charmer!" "Nothing is easier than that," said Euchar, and he signed to
her to come near.
The girl put the instrument down, came near, and made a reverence,
casting her eyes modestly on the ground. "Mignon!" cried Ludwig.
"Mignon! Sweet, beautiful creature!"
"I am called Emanuela," she said.
"And that horrible ruffian there," Ludwig went on, "where did he steal
you from? How did you get into his clutches, poor thing?"
The girl lifted her eyes, and sending a beaming, serious glance through
and through Ludwig, replied. "I don't understand you, sir. I don't know
what you mean--why you ask me this?"
"You are a Spaniard, my child," Euchar began.
"I am," she answered, her voice trembling. "I am, indeed. You see
me--you hear me. Why should I deny it?"
"Then, of course, you can play the guitar and sing a song?"
She covered her eyes with her hand, and said, in a scarce audible
whisper, "Ah! I should like to play and sing _you_ one. But my songs
are burning hot; and here it is so cold--so cold!
"Do you know," said Euchar, speaking in Spanish, and in a heightened
tone, "the song _Laurel immortal_?"
She clapped her hands, raised her glance to Heaven, tears filled her
eyes; she flew to the table, seized the guitar, sprang, rather than
walked back to the two friends, placed herself before Euchar, and began
"Laurel immortal al gran Palafox,
Gloria da España, de Francia terror!"
The expression which she put into this song was indescribable.
From the deepest pain of death there flamed forth the most fiery
enthusiasm--each note seemed to be a lightning flash which must shiver
every ice-covering of the chilled breast. As for Ludwig he was--to use
a familiar expression--ready to jump out of his skin with sheer
rapture. He interrupted her singing with boisterous "Bravas!"
"Bravissimas!" and a hundred other such expressions of approbation.
"Do be so kind, my dear fellow, as to make a little less noise!" Euchar
said. "Oh, of course," he answered, "you unimpressionable people are
never in the least affected by music!" However he did what Euchar had
asked him to do.
When she had finished, she went and leant on a tree, as if wearied. And
as she let the chords go on sounding more and more softly till they
died away in a _pianissimo_, great tears were falling upon the
instrument.
"You are in some need, my poor, pretty child," said Euchar, in the tone
which comes only from a deeply moved heart. "Although I did not see the
beginning of your dance, you have more than made up for that by your
song, and you must not refuse to accept something from me."
He had taken out a little purse in which bright ducats were shining,
and was handing it to her as she came closer to him. She fixed her gaze
upon his hand, seized it in both her own, and falling on her knees with
a loud cry of "_Oh, Dios!_" covered it with the warmest kisses. "Ah!"
cried Ludwig, "nothing but gold is worthy to touch that beautiful
little hand." And he asked Euchar if he could give him change for a
thaler, as he had no smaller money about him.
Meanwhile the hunchback had come limping up, and he lifted the guitar,
which Emanuela had dropped on the ground, making many smiling
reverences to Euchar, supposing that he had been exceedingly generous
to the girl, from the motion with which she had thanked him.
"Scoundrel--miscreant!" growled Ludwig.
The man started in alarm, and said, in a lamentable tone, "Ah, sir, why
are you so angry? Don't condemn poor Biagio Cubas--a good, respectable,
honest man. Don't judge me by the colour of my skin, or by the ugliness
of my face. I know I _have_ an ugly face. I was born in Lorca, and am
every bit as good a Christian as you are yourself."
The girl jumped up hastily, crying out to the old man in Spanish, "Come
away, little father, as quickly as you can." And they both hurried off,
Cubas continuing to make various odd reverences, and Emanuela fixing
upon Euchar the most soul-full gaze of which her beautiful eyes were
capable.
When the strange couple were lost among the trees, Euchar said, "You
must see, do you not, that you were in much too great a hurry to
condemn that little cobold in your own mind? He _has_ a touch or so of
the gypsy about him. As he says himself, he comes from Lorca. And Lorca
is an old Moorish town, and the Lorcanese (good enough folks, all the
same) bear undeniable traces of their ancestry. So there is nothing
which they take in worse part than to have this imputed to them, which
is why they keep perpetually declaring that they are Christians of ever
so old standing. This was the case with this little fellow, in whose
face his Moorish origin is certainly reflected to the extent of
positive caricature."
"No matter!" cried Ludwig. "I stick to my opinion; the man is a
tremendous scoundrel, and I will leave no stone unturned till I deliver
my charming, beautiful Mignon from his clutches."
"If you insist on thinking the little fellow a scoundrel," said Euchar,
"I can't say that I have very much confidence, for my part, in the
charming beautiful Mignon."
"What!" cried Ludwig. "Not have confidence in that divine little
creature, whose eyes beam with the purest, most innocent truth and
tenderness? However, there we see the icy, prosaic nature wholly devoid
of feeling for all such matters, distrustful of everything which
doesn't fit all in a moment into the compartments, the grooves of his
everyday business."
"Well, don't get so excited about it, my dear, enthusiastic friend,"
said Euchar quietly. "You will probably say that I have no tangible
reason for distrusting the beautiful Mignon. But my reason is that I
have this instant discovered that as she was kissing my hand she took
away that little ring with the curious stone (which you know I always
wear) from my finger. And I am greatly distressed to lose it, because
it is a souvenir of a period of my life which was full of intense
interest and importance."
"In heaven's name," said Ludwig, in an awestruck whisper, "it is not
possible, surely! No, no!" he cried, loudly and excitedly, "it cannot
be possible! That lovely face could not deceive: that eye--that
glance--You must have dropped the ring--let it fall."
"Well--" said Euchar, "we shall see. But it is getting dark: let us get
back to the town."
All the way home, Ludwig did not cease talking of Emanuela, calling her
by the sweetest names, and declaring that he was quite certain--from a
peculiar glance which she had cast on him at parting--that he had made
a deep impression on her--a sort of event which generally happened to
him in similar cases--_i.e._ when the romantic element entered amongst
the circumstances of everyday life. Euchar did not interrupt him by so
much as a syllable; but he worked himself up more and more--till, just
at the town gate (where the drummer of the guard was beginning to beat
the tattoo), he screamed into his friend's ear (a process necessitated
by the row made by the military virtuoso on his instrument), as he cast
himself upon his bosom, that he was most deeply in love with the sweet
Mignon, and that the sole object of his life from thenceforth was to
find her again, and free her from the bondage of the atrocious old
monster.
There was a servant in a handsome livery standing at Ludwig's door,
who handed him a card of invitation. As soon as he had read it, and
sent the servant away, he embraced his friend as frantically as he
had done at the town gate, and cried, "Oh, Euchar! call me the most
fortunate--the most enviable--of mortals. Open your heart! Form some
slight idea of my happiness! Mingle your tears of joy with mine!"
"What can there be of such a marvellously fortunate description
announced to you on a card?" inquired Euchar.
"Don't be startled," murmured Ludwig, "when I open to you the gates of
the magically brilliant Paradise of a thousand delights, which will
unfold itself to me by the virtue of this card here."
"Well," said Euchar, "I am sure I shall be very glad indeed, to hear
what the piece of good fortune is which is coming to you."
"Hear it," cried Ludwig; "learn it--understand it! Be amazed at
it--doubt of it--cry out--shriek--shout! I have got an invitation to
the supper and ball to-morrow evening at Countess Walther Puck's!
Victorine! Victorine! Sweet, lovely Victorine!"
"And how about sweet, lovely Mignon?" asked Euchar. But Ludwig groaned
forth, in the most pathetic tones, "Victorine! My life!" and bolted
into his quarters.
THE FRIENDS, LUDWIG AND EUCHAR. EVIL DREAM OF THE LOSS, AT PIQUET, OF
A PAIR OF HANDSOME LEGS. WOES OF AN ENTHUSIASTIC DANCER. COMFORT,
HOPE, AND MONSIEUR COCHENILLE.
It may be expedient to tell the courteous reader a little more
concerning this pair of friends, so that he may form, at all events, to
some extent, a well-grounded opinion as to each of them.
Both had the title of Baron. Educated together, and having grown up in
the most intimate friendship, they could not part even when the lapse
of years brought to light most striking dissimilarities in their mental
characteristics, which became more and more developed as time went on.
In his childhood, Euchar belonged to the class of "good, well-behaved
children," so-called, because in "society" they will sit for hours in
the same spot, ask no questions, never want anything, and so forth, and
then in due course, develop into wooden blockheads. With Euchar the
case was different. If when, in his capacity of a "good, well-behaved"
boy he chanced to be sitting with bent head and downcast eyes, some one
spoke to him, he would start in alarm, stammer, and falter in his
speech, often even shed tears, and seem to have been awakened from a
deep dream. When alone, he appeared to be a totally different being. If
watched without his being aware of it, he would be talking loudly and
eagerly, as if with several people about him, and he would "act" whole
stories--which he had heard or read--as if they were dramas, so that
tables, cupboards, chairs, whatever happened to be in the room with
him, had to represent towns, forests, villages, and dramatis personæ.
But when he had an opportunity of being alone in the open air, a
special ecstasy seemed to inspire him. Then he would jump, dance, and
shout through the woods, putting his arms about the trees, throwing
himself down into the grass--and so forth. In any sort of game played
by boys of his own standing, he was most unwilling to take part, and
was consequently looked upon as being "funky," and a creature who had
no "pluck," for he would never take his share in anything where there
was any chance of risk--such as a big jump, or a difficult piece of
climbing. But here, also, it was curious that, when at the end nobody
had had the pluck to do the thing, Euchar would wait till they were all
gone, and then, when he was by himself, would do with the utmost ease,
what they had all only _wanted_ to do. For instance, if the idea was to
get up a high, slender tree, and nobody had managed to do it, as soon
as all their backs were turned, and Euchar was alone, he would be at
the top of it in a few seconds. Seeming outwardly to be cold and
apathetic, he really threw himself into everything with all his soul,
and a persevering steadfastness such as only belongs to strong
characters. And when--as was often the case--that which he felt keenly
came to the surface, it did so with such irresistible force, that
everyone who had any knowledge of such matters was amazed at the depth
of feeling which lay hidden in the boy's nature. Many schoolmasters,
and tutors, who had to do with him, could make neither head nor tail of
him as a pupil, and there was only one of them--the last--who said the
boy was a poet: at which his papa was very much distressed, thinking
that the boy had inherited his mother's temperament, and she had always
had the most terrible headaches whenever she went to a party or
any social function. However, the papa's most intimate friend, a
smooth-spoken young chamberlain, assured him that the schoolmaster in
question was an ass to say what he did, and utterly mistaken, seeing
that the blood in the veins of young Euchar was noble, so that, being
by birth an aristocrat, he never could be in any danger of being
capable of poetry. And this was very consoling to the old gentleman.
How the lad developed with those dispositions may be readily inferred.
Nature had imprinted on his face the unmistakable signet with which she
stamps her prime favourites. But Mother Nature's favourites are those
who have the power of completely realising the illimitable love of
their kind mother, and of understanding the depths of her being: and
they are only understood by those who are favourites themselves.
Consequently Euchar was not understood by the general crowd--was
considered unimpressionable, cold, incapable of the due degree of
ecstasy on the subject of the newest tragedy at the theatre--and was
stigmatized as a prosaic creature. Above all, a whole coterie of ladies
of the most refined intellectual development and culture, who might
well be credited with the power of insight on this particular subject,
could by no means understand how it was possible that that Apollo's
brow, those sharply curving, masterful eyebrows, those eyes which
darted such a darksome fire, those softly pouting lips, should belong
to a mere lifeless image. And yet all this seemed to be the case. For
Euchar did not know in the least degree how to say nothing, about
nothing, in words which meant nothing, to pretty ladies, and look,
whilst so-doing, like a Rinaldo in bonds.
Matters were quite different with Ludwig. He belonged to the race of
those wild, uncontrollable boys of whom people are in the habit of
predicting that the world will not be wide enough for them. It was he
who always invented the maddest and most adventurous features of all
games. It was naturally to be expected that he would be the one of all
others to "come to grief" on those occasions: but he was always the one
who came out of them safe and sound, because he had the knack of
keeping himself in a safe spot during the carrying out of the
adventure--if he did not manage to slip out of it altogether. He took
up every subject rapidly, with the utmost enthusiasm--and dropped it
again as quickly. So that he learned a great many things, but did not
learn much. When he came to young man's estate, he wrote very pretty
verses, played passably on several instruments, drew very nice
pictures, spoke with a certain degree of correctness and fluency
several languages, and was, consequently, a paragon of up-bringing. He
could get into the most surprising ecstasies about everything, and give
utterance to the same in the most magniloquent words. But it was with
him as with the drum--which gives forth a sound which is loud in
proportion to its emptiness. The impression made upon him by everything
grand, beautiful, sublime, resembled the outside tickling which excites
the skin without affecting the inner fibres. Ludwig belonged to that
class of people who say, "I want to do" so-and-so; but who never get
beyond this principle of "wanting to do" into action. But, as in this
world, those who announce, with the proper amount of loudness and
emphasis, what they "intend," or are "going" to do, are held in far
greater consideration than those who quietly go and "do" the things in
question, it of course happened that Ludwig was considered "capable" of
performing the grandest deeds, and was admired accordingly, people not
troubling themselves to ascertain whether he had "done" the deeds which
he had talked about so loudly. There were, it must be said, people who
"saw through" Ludwig, and, starting from what he said, took some pains
to find out what he had done, or if he had done anything at all. And
this grieved him all the more that, in solitary hours, he was sometimes
obliged to admit to himself that this everlasting "meaning" and
"intending" to do things, without ever doing them, was, in reality, a
miserable sort of business. Then he came upon a book--forgotten and out
of date--in which was set forth that mechanical theory of the mutual
interdependence of things. He eagerly adopted this theory, which
justified and accounted for his doings, or rather his "intentions"
of doing, in his own eyes, and in those of others. According with
this theory, if he did not carry out anything which he had intended
to do--what he had said he was going to do--it was not he who
was to blame: its not happening was simply a part of the mutual
interdependence of things.
The courteous reader will, at all events, see the great convenience of
this theory.
Moreover, as Ludwig was a very good-looking young fellow, with blooming
red cheeks, he would, by virtue of his qualities, have been the idol of
all elegant circles, had not his short-sight led to his committing
numerous "quid-pro-quos," which had often most annoying consequences.
However, he consoled himself with the thought of the "impression,"
which was indescribable, which he believed himself to make upon all
female hearts: and, besides, there was a good deal in the habit he had,
just because he was so short-sighted, of placing himself in a closer
proximity to ladies with whom he was conversing, than might have been
considered altogether _convenable_, a species of innocent pushingness,
belonging to the "genial" character, so as to be sure not to make any
mistakes with reference to the person he was addressing; a matter which
had more than once been productive of annoyance.
The morning after the ball at Count Walther Puck's, Euchar received a
note from Ludwig, running as follows:
"Dearest and most beloved friend,--I am utterly miserable. I am
stricken by destiny. It is all over with me! I am dashed down from
the flowery summit of the fairest hope into the blackest and most
fathomless abyss of the deepest despair. That which was to have been
the source of my indescribable bliss constitutes my misery. Come to me
as speedily as you can, and give me some comfort, if such a thing be
possible."
Euchar found him stretched on his sofa, with his head bound up, pale
and worn from sleeplessness.
"Is it you?" he cried, in a feeble voice, stretching an arm towards
him: "is it you, my noble friend? Ah! _you_ have some sympathy for my
sufferings. At all events, let me tell you what I have gone through,
and then say whether you think all is over with me, or not."
"Things did not turn out quite as you expected at the ball, I suppose,"
said Euchar.
Ludwig heaved a deep sigh.
"Was the lovely Victorine a little unkind?" inquired Euchar. "Didn't
she behave to you quite as you expected?"
"I offended her," answered Ludwig, in the most funereal tones, "to an
extent, and in a manner, which she can never forgive."
"Good heavens!" cried Euchar; "this is very distressing. How did it
happen? Please to let me hear."
Ludwig, after heaving a profound sigh, and quoting some verses of
appropriate poetry, went on, in a voice of profound melancholy:
"Yes, Euchar. As the mysterious whirring of the wheels of a clock tells
me that it is going to strike the hour, warnings go before coming
misfortunes. On the very night before the ball I had an awful, a
horrible dream. I thought I was at the ball, and when I was going to
begin dancing, I suddenly found that I could not move my feet from the
floor. And I saw in the mirror, to my horror, that instead of the
well-looking nether extremities which nature has provided me with,
I was dragging about under my body, the gouty old legs of the
Consistorial President, with all their wrappings and bandages. And
while I had to stick to the floor in this terrible manner, lo and
behold! the Consistorial President, with Victorine in his arms,
whirling along in a Laendler, lightly and gracefully as any bird. But
the point of the thing was, that he sniggered at me, with the most
insulting style of sneering laughter, and said he had won my legs from
me at picquet.
"I awoke, as you may imagine, bathed in a perspiration of anguish.
Still sunk in thought over this horrible vision of the night, I must
needs set the cup of almost boiling chocolate to my lips, and burn them
to that extent, that you may see the mark still, although I have rubbed
on as much pomade as I could. Now I know that you don't take much
interest in other people's troubles, so I shall say nothing about the
numerous fateful events which destiny dogged my steps with all day
yesterday, and merely tell you that when it came to be time to dress in
the evening, two stitches burst out of one of my silk stockings--two of
my waistcoat buttons came off--as I was getting into the carriage to go
to the ball, I let my Wellington get into the mud, and at last, in the
carriage itself, when I wanted to tighten the patent buckles of my
pumps, I found, to my intense annoyance, that my idiot of a servant had
put on two which we're not a pair! I was obliged to go home again, and
lost a good half hour. However, Victorine came to me in all the glory
of her beauty and delightsomeness. I asked her for the next dance. It
was a Laendler, we started off together. I was in heaven. But in a
moment I felt the spite of adverse fortune."
"The mutual interdependence of things," said Euchar, interrupting.
"Call it whatever you please," said Ludwig, "it doesn't matter to me
to-day. All I know is, that it was fate which made me fall over that
tree-stump yesterday. As I was dancing I felt the pain come on again in
my knee, and it grew more and more unendurable. Just at that moment
Victorine said, loud enough to be heard by the other people who were
dancing, "We seem all to be going to sleep." Signs were made to the
band, people clapped their hands to them, and the pace grew faster
and faster. With all my might I struggled with the diabolical pain,
and conquered it. I danced along daintily, and put on a delighted
expression of countenance; but for all I could do, Victorine kept
saying: 'What is the matter, Herr Baron? You are not one bit the
partner that you generally are.' Burning dagger thrusts into my heart!"
"Poor, dear friend," said Euchar, laughing; "I see the full extent of
your sufferings!"
"And yet," continued Ludwig, "all this was only the prelude to the most
terrible of all events. You know that I have been for a long time
applying my mind to arranging the figures of a '_seize_:' and you know
of your own experience, how little I have made of the very considerable
amount of china, glass, and stoneware that I have knocked off the
tables in my lodgings here, in my practice of the intricacies of those
'tours, or figures,' that I might attain to the perfection of
performance which was my dream. One of them is the most utterly
glorious that the mind of man has ever hit upon, of its kind. Four
couples stand, picturesquely grouped, the gentleman, balancing on his
right tip-toe, places his right-arm about his partner, raising, at the
same time, his left-arm in a graceful curve above his head--whilst the
other couples make the 'ronde.' Such an idea never entered the heads of
Vestris or Gardel. Very well. I had based my hopes of highest happiness
upon this particular '_seize_.' I had been destining it for Count
Walther Puck's birthday: I intended to whisper into Victorine's ear
during this more than earthly 'tour'--'Most divine countess, I love you
unutterably--I adore you! Be mine, angel of light!' that was the
reason, dear Euchar, why I was so overwhelmed with joy when I got the
invitation to the ball there, for I had had great doubts about it.
Count Walther Puck had appeared to be a good deal annoyed with me a
little while ago, one day when I was explaining to him the theory
of the mutual interdependence of things--the mechanism of the
macrocosm--when he took it into his head that I was making out that he
was a pendulum. He said it was a piece of chaff in very bad taste; but
that he would take no notice of it in consideration of my youth, and he
turned his back. Very well! The unfortunate Laendler came to an end. I
did not dance any more, I went into the ante-room, and who should
follow me but the good Cochenille, who at once opened a bottle of
champagne for me. The wine sent fresh life into my veins. I didn't feel
the pain any longer. The '_seize_' was just going to begin--I flew back
to the dancing-room, darted up to Victorine, kissed her hand fiercely,
and took my position in the 'ronde.' The 'tour,' which I have told you
of, came on; I outdid myself! I hovered--I balanced--the God of the
dance in person; I threw my arm round my partner. I whispered, 'Divine,
heavenly Countess,' just as I had arranged with myself that I should
do. My declaration of love went forth from my lips, I gazed ardently
into my partner's eyes. Ruler of heaven! It was not Victorine I had
been dancing with! It was somebody else altogether, some lady whom I
didn't know in the least, though she was the same sort of person as
Victorine in style and feature, and dressed exactly as she was. You may
imagine that I felt as if smitten by a flash of lightning. Everything
about me was swimming in a chaos. I didn't hear the music any longer; I
dashed wildly through amongst the rows of people, hearing cries of pain
here and there, till I found myself arrested and held tight by a pair
of powerful arms, whilst a voice of fury droned into my ear, 'Death and
damnation, Herr Baron, are you out of your senses? Have you nine devils
in you, or what?' 'Twas the very Consistorial President whom I had seen
in my dream. He was holding me tight in a remote corner of the room,
and he went on as follows: 'I was just getting up from the card-table,
when you came bursting like a hurricane out of the middle of the
dancing room, and jumped about like a creature possessed upon my
unfortunate feet, till I could have roared like a bull with the pain of
it, if I hadn't been a person of proper conduct. Don't you see what a
disturbance you've been making here?' And, in fact, the whole of the
'_seize_' was in confusion, the music had stopped, and I saw that some
of the dancers were going about limping, ladies were being led to their
seats, and people were holding smelling-bottles to their noses. I had
been dancing the 'tour' of despair upon the poor people's feet, till
the President, strong as a tree, had put a period to my fell career.
Victorine approached me with eyes sparkling with scorn: 'Verily, Herr
Baron, a charming performance!' she said. 'You ask me to dance with
you--you dance with another lady, and throw the whole room into
confusion.' You may picture to yourself my apologies and excuses.
'These practical jokes are a speciality of yours, Herr Baron,'
Victorine went on, scarcely containing her anger. 'I know you--but I
beg that you will not select _me_ as the object of that cutting irony
of yours in the future.' With that she left me standing. The lady I had
been dancing with then came up amiability--nay, I may say, even
affectionateness--personified. The poor child had taken fire. I cannot
wonder at it; but is it any fault of mine? Oh, Victorine! Victorine!
Oh, ill-starred '_seize_'--dance of the furies, which has consigned me
to the depths of Orcus!"
Ludwig closed his eyes, groaned and sighed. His friend had the grace
not to break out into irrepressible laughter.
When Ludwig had taken a cup or two of chocolate--without this time
burning his lips--he seemed to recover himself to some extent, and bear
his terrible fate with somewhat greater equanimity. Presently he said
to Euchar, who had been interesting himself in a book which he had
taken up. "You had an invitation to that accursed ball yourself, had
you not?"
"I had," said Euchar, scarcely looking up from the page.
"And you never came--and you never told me that you had one, at all."
"I had another engagement," said Euchar, "as it happened, which
prevented me from going to the ball--an engagement of far greater
importance to me than any ball in the world, even had the Emperor of
Japan himself been the giver of it."
"Countess Victorine," Ludwig continued, "made the most particular
inquiries as to why you didn't come. She was all anxiety, and kept
looking towards the door. I should have been really very jealous. I
should quite have thought that, for the first time in your career, you
had touched a lady's heart, if the matter had not been explained. The
fact is, I scarcely dare to tell you in what an unsparing manner the
lovely Victorine spoke of you. She even went the length of saying that
you were a cold-hearted piece of eccentricity, whose presence often
marred all enjoyment: so that she had been dreading that you would act
as her kill-joy on that evening as you so often had done before, and
was quite delighted when she found that you were not coming. To speak
candidly, my dear Euchar, I can't make out how it is that you, gifted
by the heavens with so many bodily and mental excellences, should
always be so unlucky with the other sex--why I should always cut the
ground from under your feet. Cold creature! I feel certain that you
have no conception of the heavenly bliss of love, and that is why you
are not beloved. Whereas I, on the other hand----Believe me when I tell
you that Victorine's fiery indignation itself was engendered by the
flames of love which blazed in her heart for me--the fortunate, the
blessed one."
The door opened, and there came into the room a quaint little fellow,
in a red coat with big steel buttons, black silk breeches, heavily
powdered _frisure_, and a little round pigtail.
"Good Cochenille!" Ludwig called out to him. "Dearest Monsieur
Cochenille, to what do I owe this pleasure?"
Euchar, declaring that important engagements called him away, left his
friend alone with the confidential servant of Count Walther Puck.
Cochenille, sweetly smiling, with downcast eyes, stated that their
Countly Excellencies were quite convinced that the most honoured Herr
Baron had been attacked, during the '_seize_,' by a malady which bore a
Latin name something like Raptus, and that he, Monsieur Cochenille, was
come to make inquiries as to his present state of welfare.
"Raptus! Raptus! Nothing of the kind." And he related, and detailed at
length, how the whole matter had come about, ending by begging the
talented Kammerdiener to put affairs in order as far as he possibly
could.
Ludwig learned that his partner was a cousin of Countess Victorine,
just arrived from the country for the occasion of the Count's
birthday--that she and the Countess Victorine were one heart and one
soul, and--inasmuch as the sympathies of young ladies often display
themselves in the form of silks and crapes--were often in the habit of
dressing exactly alike. Cochenille was further of opinion that the
vexation of Countess Victorine was not very genuine. He had handed her
an ice at the end of the ball, when she was standing talking to her
cousin, and had noticed that they were laughing tremendously, and had
heard them several times mention the honoured Baron's name. The truth
was, according to what he had been able to observe, that this cousin
was of a temperament exceedingly disposed to the tender passion, and
would only be too delighted if the Baron would carry further what he
had begun, namely, at once set to work to pay assiduous attentions to
her, and in due course put on _glacé_ gloves, and lead her to the
altar: but that he, for his part, would do everything he could to
prevent such a course of events. The first thing in the morning, as he
would be having the honour to _friser_ his Countly Highness, he would
take an opportunity of laying the whole matter before him, and would
also take the liberty of begging him, as an uncle regardful of his
niece's best interests, to represent to her that the Herr Baron's
declaration of love was merely a species of "flourish" belonging to the
"tour" which he happened to be executing at the time--just as
declarations of the kind generally were. That, he thought, would be of
some service. Cochenille finally advised the Baron to go and see
Countess Victorine as soon as possible, and told him there would be an
opportunity of doing so that very day. Madame Bechs, the Consistorial
President's lady, was giving an aesthetic tea that afternoon, with tea
which (he had been told by the Russian Ambassador's valet) had come
direct overland from China through the Russian Embassy, and had an
extraordinarily delicious flavour and scent. There he would find
Victorine, and be enabled to put everything straight again.
Ludwig saw that it was nothing but unworthy doubt which had had the
power of disturbing his love-happiness: and he resolved to make himself
so marvellously charming at the "thé" of Madame Bech, the Consistorial
President's lady, that Victorine should never so much as dream of being
at all "grumpy."
THE ÆSTHETIC TEA. CHOKING COUGH OF A TRAGIC POET. THE STORY TAKES A
SERIOUS TURN, AND TELLS OF BLOODY BATTLE, SUICIDE, AND SIMILAR
MATTERS.
The courteous reader must be good enough to accompany Ludwig and
Euchar to this æsthetic tea, which is now going forward at Madame
Bech's, the Consistorial President's lady. About a dozen of the fair
sex, appropriately attired, are seated in a semi-circle. One is
thoughtlessly laughing; another is immersed in a contemplation of the
tips of her shoes, with which she is managing to practise the "pas" of
a "Française," silently and unobserved; a third appears to be sweetly
sleeping (and dreaming more sweetly still); a fourth darts the fiery
beams from her eyes athwart the room in all directions, with the
intention that they shall impinge upon not one but all the men who are
present. A fifth lisps forth "Heavenly! Glorious! Sublime!" and those
utterances are for the behoof of a young poet, who is reading out with
all possible pathos a new tragedy of destiny, tedious and silly enough
even to be read aloud on such an occasion. A delightful feature of the
affair was, that one heard a species of _obbligato_ accompaniment going
on in the next room, a species of growling, like the rumble of distant
thunder. This was the voice of the Consistorial President, who was
playing piquet with Count Walther Puck, and making himself audible in
this manner.
The poet read out, in the most dulcet accents at his command--
"Ah! but once more! once more only
Let me hear thee, voice of beauty,
Voice of rapture, voice of sweetness,
Voice from out the deep abysses,
Voice from out the heights of Heaven!
Hark! oh, listen----"
Here the thunder which had been rumbling so long broke out into a peal:
"Hell and damnation!" roared the Consistorial President's voice,
re-echoing through the room, so that the people jumped up from their
chairs, alarmed. But it was pretty that the poet, not suffering himself
to be disturbed in the slightest, went on reading--
"Yea! it is the breath beloved,
Music of those lips of nectar."
But a destiny higher than that which ruled in the poet's tragedy did
not permit him to finish his reading. Just as he was going to raise his
voice to the highest pitch of tragic power, to enunciate a terrible
execration which his hero was going to utter, something, heaven knows
what, got into his throat, so that he broke out into a frightful fit of
coughing, by no means to be assuaged, and had to be assisted out of the
room, more dead than alive.
This sudden interruption appeared to be the reverse of disagreeable to
the lady of the house, who had for some time been giving indications of
weariness and annoyance. As soon as the tranquillity of the company was
restored, she pointed out that it was time that a vivid narrative of
something should take the place of reading, and thought Euchar ought
really to make it his duty to undertake this, seeing that, in general,
he was so obstinately silent, as to contribute little to the
entertainment of the company.
Euchar said, modestly, that he was anything but a good story-teller,
and that the tale which he thought of telling was of a very serious,
perhaps even terrible description, and might be anything but enjoyable
by the company. But four very young ladies immediately cried out, with
one voice "Oh! something terrible, please! I do so love to be
terrified!"
Euchar took his place in the chair of the narrator, and began as
follows:--
"We have been passing through a period in which events have swept
athwart the stage of the world like a series of raging hurricanes.
Humanity, shaken to its depths, has given birth to things portentous,
even as the storm-tossed ocean casts up to the surface of its seething
surges the terrible marvels of its abysses. Whatever could be
accomplished by lion-like courage, unconquerable valour, hatred,
revenge, fury, and despair, was achieved during the Spanish war of
independence. I should like to tell you of the adventures of a friend
of mine, whom I shall call Edgar, who served in that war, under the
banners of Wellington. He had left his native place in deep, bitter
irritation, at the shame of his Fatherland, and gone to Hamburg, where
he lived in a little room which he had taken, in a retired quarter. He
had a neighbour, who lived in the next room to him, with only a wall
between them, but he knew nothing more of him than that he was an old
man, in infirm health, who never went out. He often heard him groan,
and break out into gentle pathetic lamentations; but he did not
understand the words he spoke. After a time, this neighbour begun to
walk assiduously up and down in his room, and it appeared to indicate
returning health when he tuned a guitar one day, and began to sing in a
soft voice, songs which Edgar recognized to be Spanish romances.
On being closely questioned, the landlady confided to Edgar, that his
neighbour was a French officer who had been invalided from the Romana
corps, that he was under secret espionage, and very seldom ventured to
go out.
In the middle of the night Edgar heard this Spaniard play on his guitar
more loudly than before, and begin, in powerful strangely changing
melody, the 'Profecia del Pirineo of Don Juan Baptista de Arriaja.'
There came the stanzas commencing--
"Y oye que el gran rugido,
En ya trueno en los campos de Castilla," &c.
The glowing enthusiasm with which the old gentleman's singing was
instinct, set Edgar's blood ablaze. A new world dawned on him. He knew,
now, how to arouse himself from out his sickly mood, and under an
impulse to deeds of valour, fight out the contest which was eating up
his heart. He could not resist an eager desire to make the acquaintance
of the man who had thus inspired him with new life. The door gave way
at the pressure of his hand, but the moment he entered the room, the
old man sprung from his bed with a cry of "Träidor" (traitor), and made
straight at Edgar with a drawn dagger. Edgar succeeded in evading the
well-aimed thrust by a skilful movement, and in grasping the old man,
and holding him down on his bed.
While he thus held him, for he had but little strength at the time, he
implored him in the most touching language, to forgive the stormy
fashion of his entrance: he assured him that he was no traitor; but
that on the contrary, what he had heard him sing had lighted up all the
rage, the inconsolable pain, which had been tearing his breast asunder
into an unslakeable desire for combat. He longed to hurry to Spain,
there to fight for the freedom of the country. The old man gazed
fixedly at him, and said, "Can it be possible?" and embraced Edgar,
who, naturally, continued his assurances that nothing could induce him
to forego his resolve, at the same time throwing his dagger down on the
ground.
Edgar now learned that the old gentleman's name was Baldassare de Luna,
and that he belonged to one of the most noble families of Spain. He was
helpless and friendless, and had the prospect, unalleviated, of
dragging out a miserable existence, far from home, without a friend or
pecuniary resource. It was some time ere Edgar could succeed in
infusing any hope or comfort into his heart: but when, at length, he
most solemnly undertook to arrange for their escape to England
together, new life appeared to circulate in the Spaniard's veins. He
was no longer the old invalid, but an enthusiastic youth, breathing out
defiance to his oppressors. Edgar kept his word. He succeeded in
evading the vigilance of the spies, and in escaping with Baldassare de
Luna to England. But it was not the will of fate that this brave and
luckless man should see his native land again. He was prostrated by
another attack of illness, and died in London, in Edgar's arms. A
spirit of prophecy gave him to see the coming glory of his rescued
country. Amid the latest prayerful whisperings which issued with
difficulty from his lips stiffening in death, Edgar distinguished the
word "Vittoria," and an expression of heavenly beatitude glowed on de
Luna's countenance.
At the time when Souchet's victorious force was threatening to bear
down all opposition and rivet the shameful foreign yoke more firmly
than ever, to all eternity, Edgar arrived before Tarragona with Colonel
Sterret's English brigade. It is matter of history that Colonel Sterret
considered the position so insecure, that he would not disembark his
troops. This our eager young soldier could not endure. He left the
English force, and betook himself to the Spanish general Contreras, who
was occupying the fortress with 8,000 Spanish soldiers. We are aware
that Souchet's force took Tarragona by storm, notwithstanding the most
heroic defence, and that Contreras himself, with a bayonet wound, fell
into the hands of the enemy.
The scenes which passed before Edgar's eyes, displayed all the
terribleness of hell itself. Whether it was on account of shameful
treachery, or from incomprehensible carelessness on the part of those
whose duty it was to attend to the matter, the troops who had to defend
the principal _enceinte_ of the fort, soon ran short of ammunition.
They for a long time resisted with the bayonet the incoming of the
enemy through the gateway which had been forced: but when, ultimately,
they had to retire before the urgency of his fire, they rushed across
to the further gateway in wild disarray, and in confused masses:
and as this gate was too narrow to admit of their passage, they
had, therefore, to submit to a terrific massacre. Yet some 4,000
Spaniards--Almeira's regiment, with which Edgar happened to be at the
time--managed to force their way through. With the courage of despair
they broke their passage through the enemy's battalions which were
there posted, and continued their flight towards Barcelona. They were
fancying that they were in safety, when they were assailed by a
terrible fire from some field-pieces, which the enemy had placed in
position behind a trench cut across the road, bringing inevitable
destruction into their ranks. Edgar was hit, and fell to the ground.
A violent pain in the head was what he felt when he recovered
consciousness. It was dark night, and all the terrors of death
permeated him as he heard the hollow groans and the heart-piercing
cries which surrounded him. He managed to get upon his legs and creep
along. When at length the morning began to break he found himself close
to a deep ravine; but as he was about to go down into it a troop of the
enemy's cavalry came slowly up. It seemed an impossibility to avoid
being taken prisoner; but suddenly shots came dropping out of the
thickest part of the wood, emptying several saddles, and presently a
party of Guerillas made an attack on the remainder of the troop. He
shouted out to his deliverers in Spanish, and they welcomed him gladly.
He had only been struck by a spent ball, and soon recovered, so as to
be able to join Don Joachim Blake's force, and enter Valenzia with it,
after several engagements.
Who does not know that the plain watered by the Guadalquivir, where
stands the beautiful Valenzia with her stately towers, is an earthly
paradise? All the heavenly delightsomeness of a sky for ever fair
penetrates and pervades the hearts and souls of the dwellers there, for
whom life is an unbroken festa. And this Valenzia was now the theatre
of a most bitter and bloody war. Instead of the dulcet tones of the
lute, stealing like the cooing of doves up in the nights to the
trellised windows, the place resounded with the hollow rolling of guns
and ammunition waggons, the wild challenge of sentries, and the weird,
mysterious murmur of soldiery marching through the streets. All joy was
driven into dumbness. All the white faces, drawn by grief and horror,
had written upon them the dread anticipation of terrible things
imminent. The most furious execrations, offspring of inward fury, were
showered upon the enemy. The Alameda--at other times the haunt of the
gay world--was now a parade ground for the troops. Here Edgar one day,
as he was standing alone, leaning against a tree, reflecting on the
dark, adverse destiny which seemed to weigh upon Spain, observed that a
man, far advanced in years, tall, and of haughty demeanour, who was
walking up and down near him with long steps, stopped and scrutinized
him keenly each time that he passed him. At last Edgar accosted him,
enquiring courteously what in him had attracted such a share of his
attention. "I see that I was not mistaken," he answered, whilst a
gloomy fire flashed from beneath his black, bushy eyebrows. "You are
not a Spaniard--and yet, if your coat does not belie you, I am bound to
look upon you as one who fights on our side. And that strikes me as
rather remarkable." Edgar, though nettled at the brusquerie of this
gentleman's address, told him, temperately enough, what had brought him
to Spain.
But scarcely had he mentioned the name of Baldassare di Luna than the
old man cried out in much excitement, "Baldassare di Luna do you say?
My beloved cousin! the dearest and most intimate friend I have left in
the world." Edgar repeated all that had happened, not failing to
mention the heavenly hopes with which Baldassare had taken leave of
life.
The old man clasped his hands, raised his eyes to heaven--his lips
moved--he seemed to be communing with his departed friend. "Forgive
me," he said, "if a gloomy mistrust, which is foreign to my character,
influenced me against you. Some time ago it was believed that the
accursed knavery of the enemy had gone so far as to introduce foreign
officers amongst our forces to act as spies. The incidents at Tarragona
but too much encouraged suspicions of this kind, and the Junta has now
determined to expel all foreigners. Don Joachim Blake, however, has
insisted that foreign engineers, at all events, are indispensable to
him, solemnly engaging, at the same time, to shoot down every foreigner
at once who is subject to the slightest ground of suspicion. If you are
a friend of my Baldassare you are undoubtedly a man of valour and
honour. At all events, I have told you everything, and you can act
accordingly." With this he took his departure.
The fortune of arms appeared to have completely abandoned the
Spaniards, and the very courage of despair itself could avail nothing
against the rapidly-advancing foe. Valenzia was hemmed in more and more
closely on all sides, so that Blake, pushed to extremity, determined to
force his way out with twelve thousand chosen troops. It is known that
few succeeded in getting through, that the remainder were in part
killed, in part driven back into the town. It was here that Edgar, at
the head of the brave Ovihuela Rifle Regiment, managed to give a
momentary check to the enemy, thus rendering the wild confusion
of the flight less disastrous. But, as at Tarragona, a musket bullet
struck him down at the crisis of the engagement. He described his
condition from that moment till he regained clear consciousness as one
inexplicably strange. It often seemed to him that he was in the thick
of fighting. He would seem to hear the thunder of the cannon, the wild
cries of the combatants--the Spaniards would seem to be advancing
victorious, but as he was seized on by the joy of battle and starting
off to lead his battalion under fire, he would seem to become suddenly
paralysed, and sink down in unconscious insensibility. Then he would
become clearly aware that he was lying on some soft bed, that people
were giving him cool drink--he heard gentle voices speaking softly, and
yet could not arouse himself from his dreams. Once, when he thought he
was back in the thick of the battle, it seemed to him that he was
grasped firmly by the shoulder, whilst a rifleman of the enemy's
fired at him, striking him on the breast, where the bullet in an
incomprehensible manner went slowly boring its way into the flesh with
the most unspeakable torments till all sense of feeling sunk away into
a deep, deathlike sleep.
Out of this death sleep Edgar awoke suddenly into full and clear
consciousness, but in such strange surroundings that he could not form
an idea as to where he might be. The soft luxurious bed with its silken
curtains, was quite out of keeping with the small, low-roofed,
dungeon-like vault of undressed stones in which it stood. A dim lamp
shed a feeble light around--neither door nor window was discernible.
Edgar raised himself with difficulty, and saw that there was a
Franciscan friar sitting in a corner, seemingly asleep. "Where am I?"
Edgar cried, with all the energy which he could concentrate.
The monk started from his sleep, trimmed the lamp, took it up, looked
at Edgar's face by the light, felt his pulse, and murmured something
which Edgar could not understand. He was going to interrogate the monk
as to what had happened to him, when the wall opened noislessly, and a
man came in whom Edgar immediately recognized as the person who had
spoken to him on the Alameda. The monk called out to this person that
the crisis was over and all would now go well. "Praise be to God," said
the old gentleman, and approached nearer to Edgar's bed.
Edgar wished to speak, but the old gentleman prevented him, assuring
him that the slightest exertion would be dangerous to him still. It was
natural that he should be surprised at finding himself in such
surroundings, but a few words would be sufficient, not only to put him
at his ease, but to explain why it had been necessary to place him in
this dreary prison.
Edgar now learnt all. When he fell wounded in the breast the intrepid
"battle-brethren," in spite of the hotness of the fire, had taken him
up and transported him into the town. It happened that in the thick of
the confusion Don Rafaele Marchez (this was the old man's name) saw the
wounded Edgar, and instead of his being sent to the hospital he was
carried to Don Rafaele's own house at once, so that the friend of his
Baldassare might have every possible care. His wound was serious enough
in itself, but the peculiar danger of his condition was the violent
nervous fever, traces of which had previously displayed themselves,
which now broke out in all its fury. It is matter of notoriety that a
tremendous fire had been kept up on Valenzia for three days and nights
with the most terrible effect, that all the terror and horror of this
bombardment spread abroad in this city thronged to excess with
people--that the self-same populace, excited to fury by the Junta,
after insisting that Blake should keep up the defence to the very
utmost, turned round and demanded an immediate surrender under the most
violent threats--that Blake, with heroic self-command, drove the crowds
asunder by Walloon Guards, and then made an honourable capitulation to
Souchet. Don Rafaele Marchez would not allow Edgar, sick unto death, to
fall into the enemy's hands. As soon as the capitulation was arranged
and the enemy within the walls of Valenzia, Edgar was removed to the
vault, where he was safe against discovery. "Friend of my sainted
Baldassare," (thus he finished his narrative) "be _my_ friend too. Your
blood has flowed for my country--every drop of it has fallen seething
into my breast, and washed away every vestige of the mistrust which
cannot but arise in this fateful time. The same fire which enflames the
Spaniard to the most bitter hatred flashes up in his friendship too,
making him capable of every deed, every sacrifice, for his ally. My
house is occupied by the enemy, but you are in safety, for I swear to
you that whatever happens I will rather let myself be buried under the
ruins of Valenzia than betray you. Believe me in this."
In the daytime a profound stillness as of the grave reigned around
Edgar's room, but in the night he often thought he heard in the
distance the echo of soft footfalls, the hollow murmur of many voices
together, the opening and shutting of doors, the clatter of weapons.
Some subterranean action seemed to be going on during the hours
of sleep. Edgar questioned the Franciscan, who only--and that
rarely--quitted him for an instant or two, tending him with the most
unwearied care. But the Franciscan was of opinion that as soon as Edgar
was well he would hear from Don Rafaele what it was that was going on.
And this was so. For when Edgar was well enough to leave his bed, Don
Rafaele came one night with a lighted torch and begged Edgar to dress
and follow him with Father Eusebio, which was the name of the
Franciscan, his doctor and nurse.
Don Rafaele led him through a long and rather narrow passage till they
came to a closed door, which was opened on Don Rafaele's knocking.
How amazed was Edgar to find himself in a spacious vaulted chamber
brilliantly lighted, in which there was a numerous assemblage of
persons for the most part of wild, dirty, sullen appearance. In the
middle stood a man who, though dressed like the commonest peasant, with
wild hair and all the marks of a homeless, nomadic life, had in all his
bearing something of the dauntless and the awe-aspiring. The features
of his face were noble, and from his eyes flashed a warlike fire which
bespoke the hero. To him Don Rafaele conducted his friend, announcing
him as the brave young German whom he had rescued from the enemy, and
who was prepared to take part in the grand contest for the freedom of
Spain. Then Don Rafaele, turning to Edgar, said, "You are here in the
heart of Valenzia, which is besieged by our enemies--the hearth on
which burns for ever that fire whose unquenchable flame, ever blazing
up with renewed vigour, is destined to destroy our accursed foe when
the moment comes when, misled by his fallacious successes, he shall
surpass himself in defiant arrogance. You are here in the subterranean
vaults of the Franciscan Monastery. Along a hundred bye-paths unknown
to betrayers the chiefs of the brave make their way to this spot, and
hence, as from a focus, they dart in all directions rays which carry
death and destruction to foreigners. Don Edgar, we look upon you as one
of ourselves. Take your part in the glory of our undertakings."
Empecinado (for the man dressed as a peasant was none other than the
renowned Guerilla chieftain)--Empecinado, whose fearless daring formed
the theme of many a popular tale amounting to the miraculous--who set
at defiance all the efforts of the enemy, like some incarnation of the
spirit of vengeance, who when he had vanished without a trace would
suddenly burst forth with redoubled force--who at the very moment when
the enemy announced the utter annihilation of his bands would suddenly
appear at the very gates of Madrid, placing the Pretender's life in
danger--this Empecinado took Edgar by the hand, addressing him in
enthusiastic words.
At this point in the proceedings a young man was brought in bound. His
face, of deathly pallor, wore all the signs of hopeless despair; he was
trembling, and appeared to find it difficult to stand upright when
placed in the presence of Empecinado. The latter pierced him through
and through with his glance of fire, and at length spoke to him, in a
tone of the most appalling calmness. "Antonio," he said, "you are in
league with the enemy. You have several times had interviews with
Souchet, at unusual hours. You endeavoured to hand over, by treachery,
our Place d'Armes at Cuença."--"It is so," answered Antonio, with a
terrible sigh, not raising his bowed-down head. "Is it possible," cried
Empecinado, breaking out into the wildest anger, "is it possible that
you are a Spaniard--that the blood of your ancestors runs in your
veins? Was not your mother Virtue personified? Would not the slightest
suspicion that she was capable of betraying the honour of her house be
an atrocious outrage? But for this I should believe you to be a bastard
sprung from the most despicable race on earth. You have merited death.
Prepare yourself to die."
Antonio threw himself at Empecinado's feet in anguish and despair,
crying, "Uncle! uncle! do you not know that all the furies of hell are
rending my breast. There are times--often--when the subtlety of Satan
can bring anything to pass. Yes, uncle, I am a Spaniard. Let me prove
it. Be merciful. Grant that I may blot out the disgrace which the most
abominable arts of hell have brought upon me--that I may appear to you
and to the Brethren purified from my offence. You understand me, uncle?
You know the reason of my so imploring you!"
Empecinado seemed somewhat moved by the young man's entreaties. He
raised him, and said gently, "Your repentance is sincere. You are right
in saying that the cunning of Satan is able to accomplish much. I know
the reason of your entreaty. I pardon you. Son of my dear sister, come
to my heart!" Empecinado with his own hands untied his bonds, embraced
him, and at once handed to him the dagger from his own girdle. "My
thanks," the young man cried. He kissed Empecinado's hands, bedewing
them with his tears, then he raised his eyes to heaven in prayer, and
drove the dagger deep into his heart, falling dead without a sound.
This occurrence so shook the invalid Edgar that he nearly fainted.
Father Eusebio took him back to his chamber.
Some weeks afterwards Don Rafaele Marchez considered that it was safe
for him to liberate his friend from the prison in which he could not
recover his health. He took him, in the night, up to a room which had
windows looking out upon an unfrequented street, and warned him not to
cross the threshold--at all events in the daytime, by reason that the
French were quartered in the house.
Edgar could not explain to himself the irresistible desire which one
day seized him to go out into the corridor. At the very instant that he
did so the door of the room opposite opened, and a French officer came
out meeting him.
"Why how came _you_ here, friend Edgar!" cried the Frenchman. "Welcome
a thousand times!" Edgar had at once recognized him as Colonel la Combe
of the Imperial Guard. Chance had brought this Colonel, just at the
time of Germany's terrible degradation, to his uncle's house, where he
himself was living, having had to abandon his military career. La Combe
came from the south of France. Through the tenderness (by no means a
common characteristic of his nation) with which he dealt with those
who were so bitterly tried, he succeeded in overcoming the deep
dislike--nay, the irreconcilable hatred, which was so firmly rooted in
Edgar's soul against the arrogant foe, and finally, by virtue of
certain traits of character, which placed beyond all doubt the true
nobility of la Combe's nature, in gaming his friendship.
"Edgar," cried the Colonel, "what has brought _you_ to Valenzia?"
It may be imagined how sorely the question embarrassed Edgar. He could
make no reply. The Colonel gazed at him gravely, and said in a serious
tone. "Ah, I understand. You have given the rein to your animosity--you
have drawn your sword for the imagined freedom of a nation of madmen,
and I cannot blame you for it. I should be forming a very poor opinion
of your friendship if I could suppose you capable of imagining that I
could betray you. No, my friend; now that I have found you, you are in
absolute safety for the first time. From this moment you shall be
nobody but the commercial traveller of a German house of business in
Marseilles, an old acquaintance of mine. So no more about that." Much
as it distressed Edgar, la Combe did not rest until he quitted his
hermitage, and shared with him the better quarters provided for him by
Don Rafaele.
Edgar hastened to acquaint the suspicious Spaniard with all the
circumstances of the case, and his previous relations with la Combe.
Don Rafaele restricted himself to the answer, delivered in a grave and
dry manner--
"Really; that is a very curious chance indeed!"
The Colonel sympathized keenly with Edgar's position. At the same time
he could not divest himself of the characteristic temper of his nation,
which sees in liveliness of movement, and the eager pursuit of
pleasure, the best means of healing a wounded heart. Thus it happened
that the Colonel walked arm in arm with the Marseilles commercial
traveller in the Alameda, and drew him into the wild amusements of his
light-hearted comrades.
Edgar noticed, clearly enough, that many strange forms dogged him
about, watching him with suspicious looks; and it went deeply to his
heart when, one day on entering a Posada with the Colonel, he heard
distinctly behind him a whisper of "Acqui esta el traïdor!" ("That is
the traitor.")
Don Rafaele grew daily more cold and monosyllabic towards Edgar, and at
last he saw him no more, and was given to understand by him that,
instead of taking his meals with him, he should take them with Colonel
la Combe.
One day, when duty had called the Colonel elsewhere, and Edgar was
alone, there came a gentle knock at his door, and Father Eusebio
entered. He made enquiry after Edgar's welfare, and talked on all kinds
of indifferent subjects, but presently came to a pause, and after
looking fixedly into Edgar's eyes, cried with much emotion--
"No, Don Edgar, _you_ are not a traitor. It is in human nature that, in
that waking dream which constitutes the delirium of fever--when the
forces of life are in bitter combat with man's earthly envelope, and
the strong tension of the fibres cannot hem in the thoughts and fancies
which strive for utterance--it is, I say, in human nature that a man
can then no longer help revealing phases of his being which are secret
at other times. How often have I, Don Edgar, watched by your pillow
during long nights? How often have you, all unknowing, allowed me to
read the very depths of your soul? No, Don Edgar, it is impossible that
you can be a traitor. But have a care of yourself--have a care of
yourself!"
Edgar implored Eusebio to tell him clearly what he was suspected of,
and what danger was threatening him.
"I will not conceal from you," said Eusebio, "that your intimacy with
Colonel la Combe and his companions has caused suspicion to rest upon
you--that fears are entertained that you might, from no evil intention,
but out of mere lightheartedness, on some occasion when you may have
taken more of our strong Spanish wines than was advisable, perhaps
divulge some of the secrets of this house, into which Don Rafaele has
initiated you. There is no doubt that you are in a certain amount of
danger."
"But," continued Eusebio, after having maintained a thoughtful silence,
with downcast eyes, for a time, "there _is_ one way of escaping all
risk. You have only to throw yourself into the arms of the Frenchmen.
They will get you out of Valenzia."
"What are you talking about?" Edgar burst out. "Sooner death without
reproach, than escape coupled with miserable disgrace."
"Don Edgar," cried the monk with enthusiasm, "you _are_ no traitor!" He
strained Edgar to his heart, and left the chamber with his eyes full of
tears.
That night Edgar, happening to be alone (the Colonel chancing to be
from home), heard steps approaching, and Don Rafaele's voice calling,
"Open your door, Don Edgar." On opening it he saw Don Rafaele with a
torch in his hand, and Father Eusebio behind him. Don Rafaele begged
Edgar to accompany him, he having to attend an important meeting in the
vault of the Franciscan monastery.
As they were passing along the subterranean passage, Don Rafaele being
in advance with the lighted torch, Eusebio whispered softly in his ear,
"Oh, God, Don Edgar! you are going to your death! There is no escape
possible for you now."
Edgar had ventured his life in many a fight with brave
lightheartedness; but here all the anxiousness, the uncertainty of the
manner of his assassination, could not but weigh heavily upon him, so
that Eusebio had some difficulty in supporting him. And yet, as the way
was still long, he managed to acquire a measure of self-control which
enabled him not only to command himself, but to resolve upon the line
of conduct which he should adopt in these circumstances. "When the door
of the vault opened, Edgar saw the terrible Empecinado, with rage and
fury flashing from his eyes. Behind him were standing several Guerillas
and one or two Franciscan friars. Having now quite recovered his calm
courage, Edgar walked firmly and fearlessly up to the Guerilla chief,
and, addressing him gravely and quietly, said--
"It happens very fortunately that I am brought face to face with you
to-day, Don Empecinado. I have been anxious to make a request to Don
Rafaele, and now I have the opportunity of laying it before yourself.
As Father Eusebio, my doctor and faithful guardian, will testify, I
have now quite recovered. I am well and strong, and find it impossible
to bear the tedious idleness of life among enemies whom I detest. I
therefore beseech you, Don Empecinado, let me be taken and placed upon
those secret paths known to you, that I may join your bands, and be
engaged in enterprises for which my soul yearns."
"H'm!" said Empecinado, in a tone approaching mockery. "Do _you_ then
hold with the crack-brained populace, who prefer death to doing homage
to the Grand Nation? Have not your friends taught you better?"
"Don Empecinado," said Edgar, "you do not understand the German mode of
looking at matters. It is not known to you that German courage, which
burns on for ever inextinguishably, like a pure naphtha flame, and
German faithfulness, firm as the primeval rock, form the most
impenetrable coat of mail, from which all the poisoned darts of
treachery and wickedness fall back harmlessly. I beg you once more, Don
Empecinado, to let me go out into the open country, that I may prove
myself deserving of the good opinion which I believe myself to have
already earned."
Empecinado looked at Edgar in amazement, whilst a low murmur circulated
amongst the assemblage. Don Rafaele moved forward to speak to
Empecinado, but he motioned him back, and going to Edgar, took his hand
and said with emotion--
"Another fate was in store for you. You had another destiny reserved
for you to-day. However, Don Edgar, think of your own country. The
enemies who have covered it with shame are here to-day before you.
Remember that your German peoples, too, will raise their eyes to the
Phoenix which will soar, with shining plumage, from the flames which
are kindling here, and their despair give place to warm longing, the
parent of dauntless courage, of battle to the very death!"
"I thought of all this," said Edgar, "before I left my own country, to
shed my blood for your freedom. All my being dissolved itself into lust
for vengeance, when Don Baldassare di Luna lay dying in my arms."
"If you are serious in this," cried Empecinado, as one suddenly
breaking into fury, "you must set forth this very night, this very
moment. You must not enter Don Rafaele's house again." Edgar declared
that this was precisely what he desired, and was immediately conducted
away by a man named Isidor Mirr (who afterwards became a guerilla
chief), and Father Eusebio.
As they went the good Eusebio could not sufficiently express his
delight at Edgar's escape.
"Heaven!" he said, "seeing your goodness put courage into your heart--a
divine miracle, in my belief."
It was much closer to Valenzia than he expected, or than the enemy
probably were aware, that Edgar met the first troop of Guerillas, and
to it he attached himself.
I pass over in silence Edgar's warlike adventures, which often might
sound as if taken from some book of knightly fables, and I come to the
time when he unexpectedly encountered Don Rafaele Marchez among the
Guerillas.
"You really had great injustice done to you, Don Edgar," said Don
Rafaele. Edgar turned his back upon him.
When morning broke, Don Rafaele got into a state of anxiety which grew
every instant till it attained a pitch of the most intense anguish. He
ran up and down, sighed, clasped his hands, raised them to heaven, and
prayed.
"What is the matter with the old fellow?" Edgar enquired.
"He has managed," said Isidor Mirr, "to get safe out of Valenzia
himself, and to save the best of his belongings, and get them loaded up
upon mules. He has been expecting them all night, and has every reason
to anticipate evil."
Edgar marvelled at Don Rafaele's avarice, which seemed to render him
oblivious of everything besides. It was midnight; the moon was shining
brightly among the hills; when musketry fire was heard from the ravine
beneath, and presently some rather seriously wounded Guerillas came
limping up, reporting that the troop which was escorting Don Rafaele's
mules had been unexpectedly attacked by some French Chasseurs, that
nearly all their comrades had fallen, and the mules been captured by
the enemy.
"Great heavens, my child--my poor, unfortunate child," Don Rafaele
cried, and sank to the ground.
"What is the matter here?" cried Edgar loudly. "Come on, come on,
brethren, down into the glen, to avenge our comrades, and snatch the
booty from the teeth of these pigs."
"The good German is right," cried Isidor Mirr. "The good German is
right," re-echoed all around, and away they rushed down into the ravine
like a bursting thunderstorm.
There were only a few Guerillas left, and they were fighting with the
courage of despair. With a cry of "Valenzia," Edgar rushed into the
thickest mass of the enemy, and with the death-announcing roar of
thirsting tigers the Guerillas dashed after him, planted their daggers
in the breasts of the foemen, and felled them with the butts of their
muskets. Well-directed bullets hit them in their headlong flight. These
were the Valenzia men who had overtaken General Moncey's Cuirassiers in
their march, dashed upon their flank, cut them down before they
gathered how they were situated, and retired into their lurking-places
masters of the arms and horses.
All this was over and done when Edgar heard a piercing scream from the
densest part of the thicket. He made haste to the spot, and found a
little man struggling with a Frenchman, and holding the bridle of the
mule he was in charge of in his teeth. Just as Edgar came on the scene
the Frenchman struck down the little man with a dagger, which he seemed
to have taken from him, and was trying to drive the mule further into
the thicket. Edgar gave a loud shout; the Frenchman fired at him,
missed him, and Edgar ran him through with his bayonet. The little
fellow was whimpering. Edgar raised him up, undid with some difficulty
the bridle, which he had been convulsively biting, and noticed for the
first time as he was helping him on to the mule that there was a
shrouded form upon it already clinging to the creature's neck with its
arms, and softly lamenting. Behind this girl, for such, judging by her
voice, was the shrouded form, Edgar deposited the little wounded man,
took the mule by the bridle, and thus made his way back to the little
Place d'Armes, where, as no more of the enemy was visible, Isidor Mirr
and his men had again taken up their positions.
The little man, who had fainted from loss of blood, though his wounds
did not seem to be dangerous, and the girl, were lifted from the mule.
At this moment Don Rafaele in a state of the most wild excitement
darted forward with cries of "My child, my sweet child!" and was in the
act to clasp the young creature, who did not seem to be more than about
eight or ten in years, in his arms, when, suddenly seeing the bright
torchlight shining on Edgar's face, he threw himself at his feet,
crying, "Oh Don Edgar, Don Edgar! this knee has never bent to mortal
man till now; but you are no mortal--you are an angel of light sent to
save me from deadly anxiety and inconsolable despair! Oh, Don Edgar,
fiendish mistrust was deeply rooted in my bosom, ever brooding upon
evil. It was an undertaking deserving the bitterest execration to plan
the destruction of one such as you with your true heart all honour
and valour---to devote you to a shameful death. Strike me down, Don
Edgar--execute a bloody vengeance upon me, vile wretch that I am! Never
can you forgive what I have done."
Edgar, fully conscious that he had done nothing more than his duty and
honour demanded of him, was pained by Don Rafaele's behaviour, and
tried by all means to calm and silence him, at length with difficulty
succeeding.
Don Rafaele said Colonel la Combe had been greatly distressed at
Edgar's disappearance, and suspecting foul play, he had been on the
point of ransacking the house and having him, Don Rafaele, arrested.
This was why it had been necessary for him to escape, and it had been
entirely owing to the Franciscan's help that he had been able to bring
away his daughter, his servant, and many things which he required.
Meanwhile the wounded servant and Don Rafaele's daughter had been taken
on some distance in advance, whilst Don Rafaele, too old to share in
the exploits of the Guerillas, was to follow them. At his sorrowful
parting with Edgar he gave him a certain talisman, which brought him
deliverance in many a serious danger.
Here Euchar ended his story, which had been listened to by the company
with the keenest interest.
The Poet, who had got over his coughing fit and returned to the room,
expressed the opinion that in Edgar's Spanish adventures there was fine
material for a tragedy, all that he thought wanting being a due spice
of love-making and an effective _finale_, such as a striking case of
insanity, a good apoplexy, or something of the kind.
"Oh, yes, love," said a young lady blushing at her own temerity. "The
only thing your delightful story wanted was some charmingly interesting
love affair!"
"Dear Lady," said Euchar laughing, "I was not telling you the story of
a novel, but the adventures of my friend Edgar. His life amongst the
wild Spanish mountains was unfortunately poor in experiences of that
kind."
"I have a strong belief," said Victorine in a low tone, "that I know
this same Edgar, who has remained in poverty, because he has despised
the most precious of gifts."
But no one's enthusiasm equalled that of Ludwig, who cried out most
excitedly, "I know that mysterious Profecia del Pirineo by the glorious
Don Juan Baptista de Arriaza. Oh, it fired my very veins! I wanted to
be off to Spain to fight for that glorious cause--had it only been
comprehended in the system of the mutual interdependence of things. I
can quite put myself in Edgar's place. How I should have spoken to that
terrible Empecinado in that awful situation in the Franciscan
monastery!" And he began a harangue, which was so pathetic that
everybody was astonished, and could not sufficiently marvel at his
brave and heroic resolution.
"But it was not a part of the mutual interdependence of things," said
the lady of the house, "although, perhaps, it does form a part of that
interdependence--or, at all events, fits into it--that, as it happens,
I have provided an entertainment for my visitors which forms a suitable
pendant to Euchar's story."
The doors opened, and Emanuela came in followed by the stunted little
Biagio Cubas with his guitar in his hands, making all manner of quaint
obeisances and salutations. But Emanuela, with that indescribable charm
of manner which had so fascinated Euchar and Ludwig in the Park, came
into the circle curtseying, and said in a gentle voice that she was
going to exhibit a little piece of skilfulness, which would not have
much to recommend it except its being a little out of the common.
During the short time which had elapsed since our two friends had seen
the girl she seemed to have grown taller, more beautiful, and more
developed in figure--moreover, she was admirably, almost expensively
dressed. "Now," Ludwig whispered into his friend's ear, as Cubas
with quaint and comical features was getting things ready for the
egg-fandago, "now is your chance to get back your ring."
"My dear goose," said Euchar, "don't you see it is on my finger? I
found I had taken it off along with my glove; I discovered that on the
same evening when I thought I had lost it."
Emanuela's dancing took everybody by storm, no one having ever seen
such a thing before. Euchar kept his gaze fixed upon her earnestly.
Ludwig broke out into exclamations of the utmost rapture. Victorine,
close to whom he was sitting, whispered to him, "Hypocrite! You dare to
pretend to speak of love to me while you are devoted to this brazen
little wretch of a Spanish egg-dancer! Don't dare to look at her again,
sir!"
Ludwig was considerably discomposed on the whole by Victorine's passion
for him, with its tendency to flame out into jealousy without any
rational cause. He said to himself, "I really am one of the luckiest
fellows in the world; but all the same, this sort of thing rather bores
a man."
When she had ended her dance Emanuela took the guitar and began singing
Spanish ballads of cheerful, happy character. Ludwig begged her to sing
that splendid thing which had so greatly delighted Euchar. She at once
began--
"Laurel immortal al gran Palafox," etc.
Her enthusiastic delivery of these lines waxed in fervour as she went
on, her voice swelled into greater power, the chords of the instrument
clanged louder and louder. When she came to the Strophe, which speaks
of the liberation of the Fatherland, she fixed her beaming eyes on
Euchar, a river of tears rushed down her cheeks, and she fell on her
knees. The hostess hurried to her, raised her up, and said, "No more,
no more, sweet darling child," and, taking her to a sofa, kissed her on
the brow and stroked her cheeks.
"She's out of her mind," Victorine whispered excitedly to Ludwig. "You
can't be in love with a mad creature! No, no. Tell me at once--on the
spot--that you can't possibly be in love with a maniac!"
"Good gracious, no! Of course not," Ludwig cried, considerably alarmed.
He found the greatest possible difficulty in properly adapting himself
to the excessively passionate manifestation which Victorine's affection
had taken to displaying.
While the hostess was refreshing Emanuela with sweet wine and biscuits
the valiant little guitarist, Biagio Cubas, who had sunk down in a
corner and was sobbing profusely, was served with a glass of genuine
Xeres, which he drained to the last drop with a gladsome "Donna, viva
hasta mil annos."
It may readily be supposed that the ladies attacked Emanuela with a
string of enquiries as to her country, circumstances, and so forth. The
hostess felt the painfulness of her position too keenly not to so
contrive that the firmly-closed circle should disperse itself into
several subsidiary eddies, in which every one, the piquet players
included, soon began to revolve. The consistorial president considered
the little Spanish girl a delightful, natty little creature; the only
thing was that somehow her dancing got into his own legs and made his
head feel as giddy as if he were waltzing with the devil in person. The
singing struck him as something quite out of the common; it delighted
him immensely.
Count Walther Puck was of quite a different opinion. Of her singing he
thought nothing at all; there was no such thing as a trillo in it all.
But he praised her dancing most warmly, and thought it quite delicious.
He said that his opinion on the subject was of some value, seeing that
at one time he had been as good a performer as the most celebrated
Maîtres de ballet.
"Will you believe me, brother Consistorial-President," he said, "when I
tell you that in my youthful days, when I was a perfect model specimen
of nimbleness and vigour, I used to be able to spring the fiocco and
knock down a tambourine hung up nine feet above the tip of my nose with
my toe! And as for this egg-fandago, why I have often smashed more eggs
in performing that dance than seven hens would lay in four-and-twenty
hours."
"Bless my soul," said the Consistorial-President, "that was doing the
thing in a most stupendous style!"
"Yes," said the Count. "And then I must tell you my good old Cochenille
plays the flageolet really very nicely indeed. And now and then I get
him to play for me in the dressing-room; and then I really give myself
full swing in the dancing line--of course, only there quite in private.
You see what I mean?"
"Of course, of course," answered the Consistorial-President, "I quite
understand."
Meanwhile Emanuela and her companion had disappeared.
As the company were about dispersing the hostess said, "Friend Euchar,
I feel certain that you know a great deal more than you have told us
about your friend Edgar, We should be deeply interested to hear a great
deal more. "What you have told us was only a fragment of it, though it
has so excited and interested us that none of us will sleep a wink to
night. I can't accord you longer time than till to-morrow evening for
satisfying our curiosity. "We must hear more of Don Rafaele, and
Empecinado, and the Guerillas. And if it is possible that Edgar can get
into a love affair, please don't deprive us of the satisfaction of
that."
"That would be delightful!" sounded from all sides; and Euchar had to
promise that he would be present with the matter necessary for the
completing of his story.
As they were going home Ludwig could not say enough on the subject of
Victorine's passion for him, bordering, as it seemed to do, on
insanity. "All the same," he said, "that jealousy of hers has had the
effect of enabling me to read my own heart clearly. And I have read
there that my love for Emanuela is a thing unutterable. I am going to
find her out, declare my passionate adoration for her--and clasp her to
my heart."
"Exactly, my dear child," said Euchar imperturbably. "That is, of
course, the proper thing for you to do."
On the next evening when the company were assembled again _chez Madame
la Présidente_, she told them with much regret that Baron Euchar had
written to say that he was unexpectedly obliged to start immediately on
a journey, and must postpone the continuation of his story till he came
back.
EUCHAR'S RETURN. SCENES IN A TRULY HAPPY MÉNAGE. CONCLUSION OF THE
STORY.
Two years had past away when one morning a handsome carriage well
loaded with baggage drew up at the door of the Golden Angel (principal
hotel in W----), and out of it got a young gentleman, a lady very
closely shrouded in wraps, and an old man. Ludwig happened to be
passing at the time, and naturally he had a look at the arrivals
through his eye-glass. The young gentleman happened to turn round, and
he immediately embraced Ludwig, crying out, "My dear old fellow!"
The latter was not a little astonished to see his old friend Euchar,
for it was he who had got out of the carriage. "My dear fellow," he
said, "who is that terribly muffled-up lady?--and the old gentleman?
And, bless my soul, here comes a fourgon with baggage, and sitting on
the back of it--good gracious, do my eyes deceive me?"
Euchar took Ludwig by the arm, led him a step or two across the street,
and said, "You shall hear all about everything in good time, dear
friend; but, to begin with, how have things been going with you? You
are terribly pale--the fire of your eyes has gone out. To tell you the
honest truth, you look about ten years older than when I saw you last.
Have you been having a bad illness or some serious trouble?"
"Oh, dear no!" answered Ludwig. "Quite the contrary. I believe I am the
very happiest fellow under the sun, for I am living a life of utterly
ideal, Utopian love and bliss. The heavenly Victorine gave me that
exquisite, tender hand of hers--bestowed it, my dear fellow, upon
unworthy me rather more than a year ago! That pretty house which you
see there with its windows shining in the sun is my home, and you must
come there with me this moment and see that earthly paradise of mine.
How delighted my dear wife will be to see you again! Let us give her a
surprise."
Euchar begged for a few minutes time just to change his dress, and
promised to come then at once and see with his own eyes how all things
had worked together for Ludwig's happiness.
Ludwig came to meet his friend at the bottom of the stair, and begged
him to make as little noise as possible in coming up, explaining that
Victorine often suffered terribly from nervous headaches, and had a bad
one just then, which rendered her nervous system so sensitive that she
could hear the very softest footfall in any part of the house, although
her own rooms were in the most distant part of it. Consequently they
two now crept as softly as they could up the stairs, which were thickly
carpeted, into Ludwig's own room. After the heartiest outpourings of
gladness at seeing his old companion again, Ludwig rang the bell, but
immediately cried out, "Oh, Lord, what have I done, wretch that I am!"
putting both his hands before his face. And it was not long before a
snappish creature of a lady's maid came in screeching out to Ludwig in
a horrible, vulgar tone of voice, "Herr Baron, for heaven's sake what
are you doing? You'll kill my lady. She's in spasms now."
"Good gracious! my good Nettie," said Ludwig in a lamentable voice, "I
really forgot all about it. I was so happy. Here is the greatest friend
I have in the world come to see me. We haven't met for years. He's an
old intimate friend of your mistress, too. Go and beg her--implore
her--to let me bring him to her." Ludwig put money into her hand, and
she made her exit with a vixenish "I'll see what I can do."
Euchar, finding himself in presence of a situation which is but too
common in life, and is consequently served up to us _ad nauseam_ in
comedies and novels, had his own particular ideas as to his friend's
domestic happiness. He felt with Ludwig all the painfulness of the
position, and began to talk about indifferent subjects. But Ludwig
would not give in to this, saying that what had been happening to him
since they had been apart had been too remarkable and interesting that
he should delay for a moment to communicate it to Euchar.
"Of course," he began, "you remember that evening when we were all at
Madame Veh's and you told the Story of your friend Edgar's adventures.
And, of course, you remember how Victorine flamed up into jealousy and
showed her heart, which was blazing with passion, without disguise.
Idiot that I was--I fully admit to you that I was an idiot--I fell
desperately in love with that little Spanish dancing girl, and thought
that I could read in her eyes that my love was not without some hope.
Perhaps you noticed that at the finish of her fandango, whim she made
the eggs into a pyramid the apex of that pyramid was directed towards
me. I was sitting just in the centre of the circle behind Madame Veh's
chair. Now could she have expressed more clearly how deep her interest
in me was? I wanted to find the dear little creature out the next
morning, but it was not a part of the mutual interdependence of things
that I should succeed in that. I had almost forgotten all about her
when chance----"
"The mutual interdependence of things, you mean," interrupted Euchar.
"Well, well," went on Ludwig. "But, at all events, a few days
afterwards I was going through the Park, and in front of that Café
where you and I saw that little Spanish girl for the first time, out
came the landlady rushing--oh, you have no idea what an interest that
good woman, who got the vinegar and water that day when I hurt my knee,
takes in me still--but that is not to the present purpose--to ask if I
knew what had become of the little Spanish girl and her companion, who
used to come there so often, and of whom nothing had been seen for
several weeks. Next day I took a great deal of trouble to find out
whether she was in the town or not, but it did not lie in the mutual
interdependence of things that I should succeed in this. And my heart
repented of the foolishness it had been so near committing, and turned
back again to the heavenly Victorine. But my crime of infidelity to her
had made such a profound impression upon that super-sensitive
organization of hers that she refused to see me or even to hear my name
mentioned. Good old Cochenille assured me that she had fallen into a
state of absolute melancholia; that she would often cry till the was
almost breathless, and wail in the most pathetic manner, saying 'He is
lost to me. I have lost him for ever.' You may imagine the effect which
all this produced upon me--how I was dissolved in sorrow over this
unfortunate misunderstanding. Cochenille proffered me his aid. He said
he would diplomatically convince the Countess that I was quite an
altered man, never dancing more than four times at the most at balls,
sitting at the theatre staring at the stage in an oblivious manner, and
paying not the smallest attention to my clothes. I sent a flowing
stream of gold pieces into his hands, and in return he gave me fresh
hopes every morning. At last Victorine allowed me to see her again. How
lovely she was! Oh, Victorine, my darling--beautiful, sweetest of
wives--amiability and kindness personified!"
Here Nettchen came in and said that the Baroness was astonished at the
Baron's extraordinary conduct. First he rang the bell as if the house
were on fire, and then he asked her to receive a visitor in the
exceedingly critical state of her health. She most certainly could not
see anybody that day whoever it might be, and begged the strange
gentleman to excuse her. Nettchen looked Euchar straight in the eyes,
scanned him over carefully from head to foot, and left the room.
Ludwig stared before him in silence, and then continued his tale in a
low voice and with bated breath, saying, "You can't imagine the degree
of almost contemptuous coldness with which Victorine received me. If it
hadn't been that her previous outbursts of burning affection had
convinced me that this coldness was merely put on to punish me, I
should really have had my doubts, and should have hesitated. But at
last this counterfeiting got too difficult for her, her behaviour grew
kindlier and kindlier, till all in a moment she gave me her shawl to
carry. And then my triumph was utterly brilliant. I rearranged that
'_seize_' of mine, which had played such an important part in my
destiny, danced it with her in the most heavenly manner, whispered in
her ear--at the proper moment, whilst balancing myself on tiptoe and
placing my arm about her--'Heavenly Countess, I love you unspeakably!
Angel of light, I implore you to be mine.' Victorine smiled into my
eyes; but that did not prevent me from paying the proper visit the next
morning, with the good help of my friend Cochenille, at the fitting
hour, about one o'clock, and making my formal proposal for her hand.
She gazed at me in silence. I threw myself at her feet, seized that
hand which was to be mine, and covered it with glowing kisses. She
allowed me to do this; but I really felt it a good deal, and thought it
was extremely queer, that all the time her eyes were fixed steadfastly
upon nothing that I could discover, staring before her as if she had
been a lifeless image. But at last a great tear or two came to her
eyes. She pressed my hand so vehemently that, as I happened to have a
sore finger, I could scarcely help crying out with the pain of it, rose
from her chair, and left the room with her handkerchief over her face.
I had no doubts as to my good fortune. I hastened to the Count and made
my formal proposal for his daughter.
"'Good. Very good, indeed, my dear Baron,' said the Count, smiling
in the most affable manner. 'But have you given the Countess any
intimation of this? Have you given her any opportunity of inferring it
at all? Are you beloved? I admit that I am foolish enough to take the
greatest possible interest in love matters.'
"I told him what had happened during the 'seize.' His eyes sparkled
with delight. 'That was delicious!' he cried over and over again. 'That
was most delicious, indeed, Herr Baron! Tell me what your "tour"
consisted of, dear Baronetto.' I danced this 'tour' for him, and
remained pausing in the position which I described to you long since.
'Charming; charming, indeed, my angelic friend!' he cried, and ringing
the bell, he shouted, 'Cochenille, Cochenille!'
"When Cochenille came in I had to sing him the music of my 'seize,'
which was composed by myself. 'Get your flageolet, Cochenille,' said
the Count, 'and play what the Baron has been singing.' Cochenille did
so tolerably correctly. I had to dance with the Count, taking the
lady's part, and I should not have believed it of the old gentleman,
while poising himself on his right tiptoe he whispered into my ear,
'Most incomparable of barons, my daughter Victorine is yours.'
"The lovely Victorine behaved rather coyly, as young ladies are apt to
do under such circumstances. She was reserved and silent, formal and
stiff, said neither 'Yes' nor 'No,' and on the whole behaved to me in
such a way that my hopes began to sink again. Besides, it so happened
that I just then, for the first time, found out that on the celebrated
occasion, when I put my arm round the cousin instead of Victorine in
the 'seize,' those two girls had planned this practical joke on purpose
just to make me the victim of a contemptible mystification. I really
was terribly distressed and annoyed, and could almost have cried, to
think that it had formed a part of the mutual interdependence of things
that I should be led about by the nose in this sort of way. But those
doubts were vain. Ere I knew where I was, wholly unexpectedly the
heavenly 'Yes' came trembling from her beautiful lips just when I had
fallen into the deepest dejection. It was only then that I found out
what a constraint Victorine had been putting upon herself before, for
she was now so wildly happy and in such amazing spirits that anything
like this condition had never been seen in her before. No doubt it was
only maidenly coyness that made her refuse to allow me to take her hand
or to kiss it, or to indulge in any kind of innocent little endearment.
Many of my friends did try to put a quantity of absurd nonsense into my
head. But the day before our wedding was destined to drive the last
shadow of doubt from my mind. Early on that morning I hastened to her.
Some papers were lying on her work-table. I glanced at them; they were
in her own handwriting. I began reading. It was a diary. Oh, heavens!
Oh, all ye Gods! Each day's entries gave me fresh proof how dearly,
with what unspeakable fondness Victorine had loved me all along. The
most trifling incidents were recorded, and always there came, 'You do
not comprehend this heart of mine. Cold and unfeeling, must I cast
aside all maidenly reserve in the wildness of my despair, throw myself
at your feet, and tell you that without your love life is only death to
me?' And it went on in this strain. On the night when I fancied myself
so wildly in love with the little Spanish girl she had written, 'All is
lost and done. He loves her; nothing can be, more certain. Mad
creature, don't you know that the eye of the woman who loves is
all-seeing?' Just as I was reading this aloud in came Victorine. I
threw myself at her feet with the diary in my hand, crying, 'No, no; I
never was in love with that strange child. You, you alone, were always
my idol!'
"Victorine fixed a gaze on me, cried out in a screaming sort of tone,
which rings in my ears still, 'Unfortunate fellow, it was not you I
meant,' and rushed from the room. Now could you have imagined that
maidenly coyness would have been capable of being carried so far?"
Here Nettchen came in to enquire on the Baroness's part why the
Baron did not bring the visitor to see her, inasmuch as she had been
expecting him for the last half hour. "A splendid model wife," cried
the Baron with much emotion, "always sacrificing herself to my wishes."
It astonished Euchar not a little to find the Baroness very much
dressed as if for company.
"Here is our dear old Euchar!" the Baron cried. "We have got him back
again." But when Euchar approached and took her hand she was seized
with a violent trembling, and, with a faint cry of "Oh, God," fell back
on her couch fainting.
Euchar could not bear the pain of the situation, and he left the room
as quickly as possible. "Unfortunate fellow," he cried, "it was,
indeed, not you she meant." He understood now the fathomless depth of
misery into which his friend's incredible vanity had plunged him--he
knew now upon whom Victorine's love had been bestowed, and felt himself
strangely moved and touched. He comprehended now, and only now, the
significance of many things which his own simple straightforwardness
had prevented him from seeing before. Now, and only now, he saw through
and through the impassioned Victorine, and could scarcely explain to
himself how he had failed to discover that it was with him she was in
love. The occasions on which her fondness for him had led her to give
expression to it, almost in defiance of all considerations, rose more
clearly before his mental sight, and he distinctly remembered that just
on those very occasions some strange unaccountable antipathy to her had
caused a curious, inexplicable irritation of feeling towards her. This
feeling of angry irritation he now brought to bear upon himself, filled
as he was by the profoundest pity for the poor girl, whose destiny
seemed to have been ruled by such an evil star.
It so happened that on this very evening the self-same party to which
Euchar had told the story of Edgar's adventures in Spain, two years
previously, were assembled at Madame Veh's. He was greeted with the
greatest warmth, but an electric thrill went through him when he saw
Victorine, as he had not thought he would meet her there. There was no
trace of illness about her. Her eyes shone as brilliantly as of old,
and a carefully-chosen costume of great tastefulness enhanced her
loveliness and charm. Euchar, distressed by her presence, was depressed
and put out, contrary to his usual wont. Victorine so managed matters
as to be able to approach him, and suddenly seizing his hand, drew him
aside, saying gravely and calmly--
"You know my husband's pet theory of the mutual interdependence of
things? I believe what constitutes the real 'mutual interdependence of
things' in our lives to be the follies which we commit, repent of, and
commit again and again. So that our lives appear to consist of a
process of being wildly hunted hither and thither by a species of
enchantment beyond our control, which drives us on before it till it
mocks and dashes us into death. I know all, Euchar; I know whom I am
going to see this evening. It was not you who brought those bitter,
hopeless sorrows upon me; not you, but an evil fate. The demon was laid
and vanished at the moment when I saw you again. May peace and rest be
upon us, Euchar."
"Yes, Victorine," Euchar answered, "may rest and peace be upon us.
However miscomprehended a life may be, the Eternal Power does not leave
it without hope."
"All is ended--and well," said Victorine; and, wiping a tear away, she
turned to the company.
Madame Veh had been observant of this pair, and now whispered to
Euchar--
"I told her everything. Was I right?"
"I must go through with the whole business," Euchar answered.
The company--as often happens in such circumstances--felt a fresh
impulse to festivity and enjoyment in Euchar's unexpected return, and
besieged him with enquiries as to where he had been and what had
happened to him during his absence.
"What has really brought me here," said Euchar, "is the obligation
which I am under to keep my promise of two years ago that I would tell
you a good deal more of my friend Edgar's history, and put a copestone
upon it such as our friend the Poet thought it wanted. As I can now
assure you that no dark clouds have come over his path, that there have
been no deeds of violence, but that, on the contrary, as the ladies
wished, my story will be concerned with a rather romantic love-affair,
I feel sure that I may reckon upon a fair measure of approval."
All applauded, and speedily formed into a narrower ring. Euchar at once
commenced as follows--
I pass over in silence the warlike adventures which Edgar met with
while fighting in company with the Guerillas--although _they_ were
sufficiently romantic--contenting myself with explaining that the
talisman which Don Rafaele Marchez gave him when parting with him, was
a little ring inscribed with mystic characters, which showed that he
was an initiate in the most secret of the confederacies or societies;
thus assuring him, wherever he might be, of the most absolute and
unlimited confidence of those acquainted with those signs, and
rendering all danger such as he had been exposed to in Valenzia
impossible.
Soon afterwards he joined the English forces, and served under
Wellington. He was never touched by a hostile bullet again, and when
the campaign was over he returned to his own country safe and sound.
Don Rafaele Marchez he had never seen again, nor had he heard anything
of his further fortunes.
Edgar had been a long while back in his native town, when, one day, Don
Rafaele's little ring (which he always wore on his finger) disappeared
under peculiar circumstances. Early on the morning of the day following
this, a queer little fellow came into his room, held the missing ring
up to him, and asked him if it was his. When Edgar replied that it was,
the little man cried out excitedly in Spanish--
"Oh, _you are_ Don Edgar; there can be no doubt about it." And then
Edgar clearly remembered the face and figure of the little fellow, who
was Don Rafaele's faithful servant, the same who had displayed the lion
courage of despair in trying to save his master's daughter.
"In the name of all the saints!" Edgar cried, "you must be Don
Rafaele's faithful servant! I recognise you. Where is _he_? My strange
presentiment is going to come true."
The little man implored Edgar to go with him at once.
He took him to one of the most distant suburbs, climbed with him to the
garret of a miserable house, and--what a spectacle! Sick, worn to a
shadow, with all the traces of the most mortal suffering upon his
deathlike face, Don Rafaele Marchez was lying upon a bed of straw, with
a girl praying by his side. When Edgar came in, the girl rushed up to
him, and drew him to the side of the old man, crying in a tone of the
warmest delight--
"Father, father! this is he, is it not?"
"Yes," said the old man, his dim eyes brightening as he raised his
folded hands to heaven, "it is he--our preserver. Ah, Don Edgar, who
would have believed that the fire which burned within me for my country
and freedom would have turned upon me for my destruction."
After the first outpourings of mingled delight and regret, Edgar
learned that Don Rafaele's enemies had managed, after the establishment
of peace, to bring charges against him causing him to be regarded with
suspicion by the government. He was sentenced to be banished, and his
property was confiscated. He fell into the deepest poverty. His devoted
daughter and his faithful servant supported him by dancing and playing.
"Emanuela and Biagio Cubas, of course!" Ludwig cried out. And all the
others repeated after him, "Of course, of course--Emanuela and Biagio
Cubas!"
The hostess enjoined silence on the ground that, although there might
be many things which could be gradually explained, the narrator ought
not to be interrupted until he had come to the end of his story.
Moreover she felt no doubt that as soon as Edgar saw the lovely
Emanuela he must, of course, have fallen desperately in love with her.
"That, of course, is exactly what he did do," said Euchar, a slight
redness overspreading his cheeks. Even before this particular meeting
with her, on other occasions of his seeing that marvellously
beautifully child, he had felt the most distinct presentiments of what
would follow, and a sense of the deepest affection, like nothing which
he had ever experienced before. He immediately set to remedy the
condition of affairs. He took away Don Rafaele, Emanuela, and the
trusty Cubas, to a country estate belonging to his uncle. And in
arranging this I was of some assistance to him. It seemed as if Don
Rafaele's lucky star was going to rise again; for soon after this there
came a letter from good Father Eusebio to say that the brethren, well
acquainted with the secret corners of his house, had hidden away the
very considerable property (in the shape of gold and jewels) which he
possessed (and which he had walled up before his flight) in their own
convent; so that all that was necessary was to send some trustworthy
person to fetch them. Edgar set out at once for Valenzia with the
faithful Cubas. He saw his kind old nurse, Father Eusebio, again, and
Don Rafaele's treasure was handed over to him. But he knew that Don
Rafaele prized honour above everything, and he succeeded in Madrid in
completely re-establishing his innocence. The decree of banishment was
cancelled.
The doors opened and there entered a beautifully dressed lady, followed
by an old gentleman of lofty bearing and aristocratic looks. The
hostess rose to receive them, and led the lady within the circle. The
other guests had all risen, and the host presented "Donna Emanuela
Marchez, our friend Euchar's bride. Ron Rafaele Marchez."
"Yes," said Euchar, with the bliss of the happiness which he had
achieved radiating from his eyes, and glowing in brilliant roses on his
cheeks, "I have only now to tell you that he whom I spoke of to you as
Edgar was none other than myself."
Victorine clasped the beautiful Emanuela in her arms, and pressed her
warmly to her heart. They seemed to know each other already. But
Ludwig, casting a glance of sorrow upon the group, said--
"All this was a part of the mutual interdependence of things."
The friends were pleased with Sylvester's tale, and were unanimous in
thinking that Edgar's adventures in Spain during the War of
Independence, although they might perhaps be considered to be
interwoven in merely an episodical form, really constituted the kernel
of the story, and that their happy effect was accounted for by their
being founded upon actual historical facts.
"There is no doubt," said Lothair, "that matter which is absolutely
historical possesses a certain peculiar quality which the inventive
faculty, when it merely hovers about in empty space, with nothing to
anchor upon, cannot attain to. In the same way the skilful introduction
of truly historical customs, manners, habitudes and so forth, belonging
to any race, or people, or to any particular class of people, gives to
a work of fiction a life-like colouring which it is difficult otherwise
to attain. But I insist upon their being introduced _skilfully_. For
there is no doubt that it is not so easy to introduce historical
facts--things which have actually happened--into a work of which the
incidents belong to the domain of pure imagination, as many people
think it is. And it requires a peculiar skilfulness, which everybody is
not fortunate enough to possess. In the absence of it there appears
merely a pale, distorted simulacrum of life, instead of the freshness
of reality. I know works--particularly some by literary ladies--in
which one feels, at every instant, how the writer has gone dipping the
brush into the colour-box, bringing nothing out of it, after all, but a
sort of jumble of strokes of different colours, just where what was
wanted was a thoroughly life-like picture."
"I quite agree with you," said Lothair. "And, having just chanced to
remember a particular novel, written by an otherwise fairly clever
woman (which, notwithstanding all the dippings of her brush into the
aforesaid paint-box, does not possess a single atom of real semblance
of life, or of poetic truth, from one end of it to the other, so that
one cannot remember it for a single moment), I merely wish to say that
this particular skill in producing an effect of reality and historical
truth, brilliantly distinguishes the works of a writer who has only
rather recently become known to us. I mean Walter Scott. I have only
read his 'Guy Mannering.' But _ex ungue leonem_. The 'exposition' of
this tale is based upon Scotch manners and customs, and matters
belonging peculiarly to the place in which the scene of it is laid.
But, without any acquaintance with them, one is carried away by the
vivid reality of the characters and incidents in an extraordinary
degree, and the 'exposition' is to be termed so utterly masterly just
because we are landed _in medias res_ in a moment, as if by the wave of
an enchanter's wand. Moreover, Scott has the power of drawing the
figures of his pictures with a few touches, in such a way that they
seem to come out of their frames, and move about before us in the most
living fashion imaginable. Scott is a splendid phenomenon appearing in
the literature of Great Britain. He is as vivid as Smollett, though far
more classic and noble. But I think he is wanting in that brilliant
lire of profound humour which coruscates in the writings of Sterne and
Swift."
"I am just in your position, Ottmar," said Vincenz. "'Guy Mannering' is
the only work of Scott's which I have read. But I was much struck by
the originality of it, and the manner in which, in its methodical
progress, it gradually unwinds itself like a clue of thread, gently and
quietly, never breaking its firm-spun strands. My chief objection to it
is, that (no doubt in faithfulness to British manners) the female
characters are so tame and colourless, except that grand gipsy
woman--although she is scarcely so much to be called a woman as a kind
of spectral apparition. Both of the young ladies in 'Guy Mannering'
remind me of the English coloured engravings, which are all exactly
alike--_id est_, as pretty as they are meaningless and expressionless,
and as to which one sees distinctly that the originals of them would
never allow anything further than 'Yea, yea; nay, nay!' to cross those
pretty little delicate lips of theirs, as anything more might lead unto
evil. Hogarth's milkmaid is a prototype of all these creatures. Both of
the girls in 'Guy Mannering' lack reality--the god-like vivifying
breath of life."
"Might not one wish," said Theodore, "in the case of some of the female
characters of one of our most talented writers (particularly in some of
his earlier works) that they had a little more flesh and blood, since
they are really all so very apt to melt into wreaths of mist when one
looks at them closely? Nevertheless, let us love and honour both of
those writers--the foreigner and our countryman, because of the true
and glorious things which they have bestowed upon us."
"It is remarkable," said Sylvester, "that--unless I mistake--another
great writer appeared on the other side of the channel, about the same
time as Walter Scott, and has produced works of equal greatness and
splendour, but in a different direction. I mean Lord Byron, who appears
to me to be much more solid and powerful than Thomas Moore. His 'Siege
of Corinth' is a masterpiece, fall of genius. His predominant tendency
seems to be towards the gloomy, the mysterious and the terrible; and
his 'Vampire' I have avoided reading, for the bare idea of a vampire
makes my blood run cold. So far as I understand the matter, a vampire
is an animated corpse which sucks the blood of the living."
"Ho! ho!" cried Lothair, laughing, "a writer such as you, my dear
friend, Sylvester, must of course have found it necessary to dip more
or less deeply into all kinds of accounts concerning magic, witches,
sorcery, enchantment, and other such works of the devil, because they
are necessary for your work, and part of your stock in trade. And I
should suppose you have gone into those subjects yourself with the view
of getting some personal experience of them as well. As regards
vampirism--that you may see how well read I am in these matters--I will
tell you the name of a delightful treatise in which you may study this
dark subject. The complete title of this little book is 'M. Michael
Ranft (Deacon of Nebra). Treatise on the Mastication and Sucking of the
Dead in their Graves; wherein the true nature and description of the
Hungarian vampires and bloodsuckers is clearly set forth, and all
previous writings on this subject are passed in review and subjected to
criticism.' This title in itself will convince you of the thoroughness
of this treatise, and you will learn from it that a vampire is nothing
other but an accursed creature who lets himself be buried as being
dead, and then rises out of the grave and sucks people's blood in their
sleep. And those people become vampires in their turn. So that,
according to the accounts received from Hungary and quoted by this
magister, the inhabitants of whole villages become vampires of the most
abominable description. To render those vampires harmless they must be
dug out of their graves, a stake driven through their hearts, and their
bodies burnt to ashes. Those horrible beings very often do not appear
in their own proper forms, but _en masque_. A certain officer, I happen
to remember, writing from Belgrade to a celebrated doctor in Leipzig
for information as to the true nature of vampires, expresses himself
thus: 'In a village called Kinklina it chanced that two brothers were
troubled by a vampire, so that one of them used to sit up by the other
at night whilst he slept. The one who was watching used to see
something like a dog opening the door, but this dog used to make off
when he cried out at it. At last one night they both were asleep at the
same time, and the vampire bit and sucked a place under the right ear
of one of them, leaving a red mark. The man died of this in three days'
time. In conclusion,' said the officer, 'as the people of this place
make all this out to be miraculous, I venture to take the liberty of
requesting you to tell me your private opinion as to whether it is
caused by the intervention of sympathetic, diabolical, or astral
spirits. And I remain, with much respect, &c.' Take example by this
officer of enquiring mind. As it happens his name occurs to me at this
moment. He was an ensign in the Prince Alexander regiment, Sigismund
Alexander Friedrich von Kottwitz. The military mind seems to have been
considerably exercised on the subject of vampirism about that time.
Magister Ranft quotes in his book an official declaration made by an
army surgeon before two of his brother officers concerning the
detection and destruction of a vampire. This declaration contains,
_inter alia_, the following passage: 'Inasmuch as they perceived, from
the aforesaid circumstances, that this was unmistakably a vampire, they
drove a stake through its heart, upon which it gave vent to a distinct
gasp, emitting a considerable quantity of blood.' Is that not both
interesting and instructive?"
"All this of Magister Ranft's," said Sylvester, "may, no doubt, be
sufficiently absurd and even rather crack-brained; but, at the same
time, if we keep to the subject of vampirism itself, never minding in
what particular fashion it may be treated, it certainly is one of the
most horrible and terrible notions imaginable. I can conceive nothing
more ghastlily repulsive to the mind."
"Still," said Cyprian, "it is capable of providing a material, when
dealt with by a writer of imagination possessed of some poetical tact,
which has the power of stirring within us that profound sense of awe
which is innate in our hearts, and when touched by the electric impulse
from an unseen spirit world causes our soul to thrill, not altogether
unpleasantly after a fashion. A due amount of poetic tact on the
author's part will prevent the horror of the subject from going so far
as to be loathsome; for it generally has such an element of the absurd
about it that it does not impress us so deeply as if that were not the
case. Why should not a writer be permitted to make use of the levers of
fear, terror, and horror because some feeble soul here and there finds
it more than it can bear? Shall there be no strong meat at table
because there happen to be some guests there whose stomachs are weak,
or who have spoiled their own digestions?"
"My dear, fanciful Cyprian," Theodore said, "there was no occasion for
your vindication of the horrible. We all know how wonderfully great
writers have moved men's hearts to their very depths by means of that
lever. We have only to think of Shakespeare. Moreover, who knew better
how to use it than our own glorious Tieck in many of his tales? I need
only instance the 'Love-Spell.' The leading idea of that story cannot
but make everybody's blood run cold, and the end of it is full of the
utmost fear and horror; but still the colours are blended so admirably
that, in spite of all the terror and dismay, the mysterious magic charm
so seizes upon us that we yield ourselves up to it without an effort to
resist. How true is what Tieck puts in the mouth of his Manfred in
answer to women's objections to the element of the awe-inspiring in
fiction. Of course, what is the fact is that whatsoever of the terrible
encounters us in our daily life is just what tortures and tears our
hearts with irresistible pain. And, indeed, the cruelty of mankind, as
exercised by tyrants, great and small, without pity or mercy, and with
the diabolical malignity of hell itself, produces misery on a par with
anything told of in fiction. And how finely the author says: 'In those
imaginary legends the misery cannot reach the world with its rays until
they have been broken up into prismatic colours,' and I should have
supposed that in that condition they would have been endurable by eyes
even not very strong."
"We have often spoken already," said Lothair, "of this most genial
writer; the full recognition of whom, in all his grand super-excellence
and variety, is reserved for posterity, whilst Wills o' the Wisp
rapidly scintillating into our ken and blinding the eye for a moment
with borrowed light, go out into darkness just as speedily. On the
whole, I believe that the imagination can be moved by very simple
means, and that it is often more the _idea_ of the thing than the thing
itself which causes our fear. Kleist's tale of the 'Beggar Woman of
Lucarno' has in it, at least to me, the most frightening idea that I
can think of, and yet how simple it is. A beggar woman is sent
contemptuously, as if she were a dog, to lie behind the stove, and dies
there. She is heard every night hobbling across the floor towards the
stove, but nothing is seen. It is, no doubt, the wonderful colouring of
the whole affair Which produces the effect. Not only could Kleist 'dip'
into the aforesaid colour-box, but he could lay the colours on, with
the power and the genius of the most finished master. He did not need
to raise a vampire out of the grave, all he needed was an old woman."
"This discussion about vampirism," said Cyprian, "reminds me of a
ghastly story which I either heard or read a very long time ago. But I
think I heard it, because I seem to remember that the person who told
it said that the circumstances had actually happened, and mentioned the
name of the family and of their country seat where it took place. But
if this story is known to you as being in print, please to stop me and
prevent my going on with it, because there's nothing more wearisome
than to tell people things which they have known for ever so long."
"I foresee," said Ottmar, "that you are going to give us something
unusually awful and terrible. But remember Saint Serapion and be as
concise as you can, so that Vincenz may have his turn; for I see that
he is waiting impatiently to read us that long-promised story of his."
"Hush! hush!" said Vincenz. "I could not wish anything better than that
Cyprian should hang up a fine dark canvas by way of a background so as
to throw out the figures of my tale, which I think are brightly and
variedly coloured, and certainly excessively active. So begin, my
Cyprianus, and be as gloomy, as frightful, as terrible as the vampirish
Lord Byron himself, though I know nothing about him, as I have never
read a word of his writings."
Count Hyppolitus (began Cyprian) had just returned from a long time
spent in travelling to take possession of the rich inheritance which
his father, recently dead, had left to him. The ancestral home was
situated in the most beautiful and charming country imaginable,
and the income from the property was amply sufficient to defray
the cost of most extensive improvements. Whatever in the way of
architecture and landscape gardening had struck the Count during his
travels--particularly in England--as specially delightful and apposite,
he was going to reproduce in his own demesne. Architects, landscape
gardeners, and labourers of all sorts arrived on the scene as they were
wanted, and there commenced at once a complete reconstruction of the
place, whilst an extensive park was laid out on the grandest scale,
which involved the including within its boundaries of the church, the
parsonage, and the burial ground. All those improvements the Count, who
possessed the necessary knowledge, superintended himself, devoting
himself to this occupation body and soul; so that a year slipped away
without its ever having occurred to him to take an old uncle's advice
and let the light of his countenance shine in the Residenz before the
eyes of the young ladies, so that the most beautiful, the best,
and the most nobly born amongst them might fall to his share as wife.
One morning, as he was sitting at his drawing table sketching the
ground-plan of a new building, a certain elderly Baroness--distantly
related to his father--was announced as having come to call. When
Hyppolitus heard her name he remembered that his father had always
spoken of her with the greatest indignation--nay, with absolute
abhorrence, and had often warned people who were going to approach her
to keep aloof, without explaining what the danger connected with her
was. If he was questioned more closely, he said there were certain
matters as to which it was better to keep silence. Thus much was
certain, that there were rumours current in the Residenz of some most
remarkable and unprecedented criminal trial in which the Baroness had
been involved, which had led to her separation from her husband, driven
her from her home--which was at some considerable distance--and for the
suppression of the consequences of which she was indebted to the
prince's forbearance. Hyppolitus felt a very painful and disagreeable
impression at the coming of a person whom his father had so detested,
although the reasons for this detestation were not known to him. But
the laws of hospitality, more binding in the country than in town,
obliged him to receive this visit.
Never had any one, without being at all ill-favoured in the usual
acceptation of that term, made by her exterior such a disagreeable
impression upon the Count as did this Baroness. When she came in she
looked him through and through with a glance of fire, and then she cast
her eyes down and apologized for her coming in terms which were almost
over humble. She expressed her sorrow that his father, influenced by
prejudices against her with which her enemies had impregnated his mind,
had formed a mortal hatred to her, and though she was almost starving,
in the depths of her poverty he had never given her the smallest help
or support. As she had now, unexpectedly as she said, come into
possession of a small sum of money she had found it possible to leave
the Residenz and go to a small country town a short distance off.
However, as she was engaged in this journey she had not found it
possible to resist the desire to see the son of the man whom,
notwithstanding his irreconcilable hatred, she had never ceased to
regard with feelings of the highest esteem. The tone in which all this
was spoken had the moving accents of sincerity, and the Count was all
the more affected by it that, having turned his eyes away from her
repulsive face, he had fixed them upon a marvellously charming and
beautiful creature who was with her. The Baroness finished her speech.
The Count did not seem to be aware that she had done so. He remained
silent. She begged him to pardon--and attribute to her embarrassment at
being where she was--her having neglected to explain that her companion
was her daughter Aurelia. On this the Count found words, and blushing
up to the eyes implored the Baroness, with the agitation of a young man
overpowered by love, to let him atone in some degree for his lather's
shortcomings--the result of misunderstandings--and to favour him by
paying him a long visit. In warmly enforcing this request he took her
hand. But the words and the breath died away on his lips and his blood
ran cold. For he felt his hand grasped as if in a vice by fingers cold
and stiff as death, and the tall bony form of the Baroness, who was
staring at him with eyes evidently deprived of the faculty of sight,
seemed to him in its gay many tinted attire like some bedizened corpse.
"Oh, good heavens! how unfortunate just at this moment," Aurelia cried
out, and went on to lament in a gentle heart-penetrating voice that her
mother was now and then suddenly seized by a tetanic spasm, but that it
generally passed off very quickly without its being necessary to take
any measures with regard to it.
Hyppolitus disengaged himself with some difficulty from the Baroness,
and all the glowing life of sweetest love delight came back to him as
he took Aurelia's hand and pressed it warmly to his lips. Although he
had almost come to man's estate it was the first time that he felt the
full force of passion, so that it was impossible for him to hide what
he felt, and the manner in which Aurelia received his avowal in a
noble, simple, child-like delight, kindled the fairest of hopes within
him. The Baroness recovered in a few minutes, and, seemingly quite
unaware of what had been happening, expressed her gratitude to the
Count for his invitation to pay a visit of some duration at the Castle,
saying she would be but too happy to forget the injustice with which
his father had treated her.
Thus the Count's household arrangements and domestic position were
completely changed, and he could not but believe that some special
favour of fortune had brought to him the only woman in all the world
who, as a warmly beloved and deeply adored wife, was capable of
bestowing upon him the highest conceivable happiness.
The Baroness's manner of conduct underwent little alteration. She
continued to be silent, grave, much wrapped up in herself, and when
opportunity offered, evinced a gentle disposition, and a heart disposed
towards any innocent enjoyment. The Count had become accustomed to the
death-like whiteness of her face, to the very remarkable network of
wrinkles which covered it, and to the generally spectral appearance
which she displayed; but all this he set down to the invalid condition
of her health, and also, in some measure, to a disposition which she
evinced to gloomy romanticism. The servants told him that she often
went out for walks in the night-time, through the park to the
churchyard. He was much annoyed that his father's prejudices had
influenced him to the extent that they had; and the most earnest
recommendations of his uncle that he should conquer the feeling which
had taken possession of him, and give up a relationship which must
sooner or later drive him to his ruin, had no effect upon him.
In complete certainty of Aurelia's sincere affection, he asked for her
hand; and it may be imagined with what joy the Baroness received this
proposal, which transferred her into the lap of luxury from a position
of the deepest poverty. The pallor and the strange expression, which
spoke of some invincible inward pain or trouble, had disappeared from
Aurelia's face. The blissfulness of love beamed in her eyes, and
shimmered in roses on her cheeks.
On the morning of the wedding-day a terrible event shattered the
Count's hopes. The Baroness was found lying on her face dead, not far
from the churchyard: and when the Count was looking out of his window
on getting up, full of the bliss of the happiness which he had
attained, her body was being brought back to the Castle. He supposed
she was only in one of her usual attacks; but all efforts to bring her
back to life were ineffectual. She was dead. Aurelia, instead of giving
way to violent grief, seemed rather to be struck dumb and tearless by
this blow, which appeared to have a paralyzing effect on her.
The Count was much distressed for her, and only ventured--most
cautiously and most gently--to remind her that her orphaned condition
rendered it necessary that conventionalities should be disregarded, and
that the most essential matter in the circumstances was to hasten on
the marriage as much as possible, notwithstanding the loss of her
mother. At this Aurelia fell into the Count's arms, and, whilst a flood
of tears ran down her cheeks, cried in a most eager manner, and in a
voice which was shrill with urgency:
"Yes, yes! For the love of all the saints. For the sake of my soul's
salvation--yes!"
The Count ascribed this burst of emotion to the bitter sense that, in
her orphaned condition, she did not know whither to betake herself,
seeing that she could not go on staying in the Castle. He took pains to
procure a worthy matron as a companion for her, till in a few weeks,
the wedding-day again came round. And this time no mischance interfered
with it, and it crowned the bliss of Aurelia and Hyppolitus. But
Aurelia had all this while been in a curiously strained and excited
condition. It was not grief for her mother, but she seemed to be
unceasingly, and without cessation, tortured by some inward anxiety. In
the midst of the most delicious love-passage she would suddenly clasp
the Count in her arms, pale as death, and like a person suddenly seized
by some terror--just as if she were trying her very utmost to resist
some extraneous power which was threatening to force her to
destruction--and would cry, "Oh, no--no! Never, never!" Now that she
was married, however, it seemed that this strange, overstrained,
excited condition in which she had been, abated and left her, and the
terrible inward anxiety and disturbance under which she had been
labouring seemed to disappear.
The Count could not but suspect the existence of some secret evil
mystery by which Aurelia's inner being was tormented, but he very
properly thought it would be unkind and unfeeling to ask her about it
whilst her excitement lasted, and she herself avoided any explanation
on the subject. However, a time came when he thought he might venture
to hint gently, that perhaps it would lie well if she indicated to him
the cause of the strange condition of her mind. She herself at once
said it would be a satisfaction to her to open her mind to him, her
beloved husband. And great was his amazement to learn that what was at
the bottom of the mystery, was the atrociously wicked life which her
mother had led, that was so perturbing her mind.
"Can there be anything more terrible," she said, "than to have to hate,
detest, and abhor one's own mother?"
Thus the prejudices (as they were called) of his father and uncle had
not been unfounded, and the Baroness had deceived him in the most
deliberate manner. He was obliged to confess to himself--and he made no
secret of it--that it was a fortunate circumstance that the Baroness
had died on the morning of his wedding-day. But Aurelia declared that
as soon as her mother was dead she had been seized by dark and terrible
terrors, and could not help thinking that her mother would rise from
her grave, and drag her from her husband's arms into perdition.
She said she dimly remembered, one morning when she was a mere child,
being awakened by a frightful commotion in the house. Doors opened and
shut; strangers' voices cried out in confusion. At last, things
becoming quieter, her nurse took her in her arms, and carried her into
a large room where there were many people, and the man who had often
played with her, and given her sweetmeats, lying stretched on a long
table. This man she had always called "Papa," and she stretched her
hands out to him, and wanted to kiss him. But his lips, always warm
before, were cold as ice, and Aurelia broke into violent weeping,
without knowing why. The nurse took her to a strange house, where she
remained a long while, till at last a lady came and took her away in a
carriage. This was her mother, who soon after took her to the Residenz.
When Aurelia got to be about sixteen, a man came to the house whom her
mother welcomed joyfully, and treated with much confidentiality,
receiving him with much intimacy of friendship, as being a dear old
friend. He came more and more frequently, and the Baroness's style of
existence was soon greatly altered for the better. Instead of living in
an attic, and subsisting on the poorest of fare, and wearing the most
wretched old clothes, she took a fine lodging in the most fashionable
quarter, wore fine dresses, ate and drank with this stranger of the
best and most expensive food and drink daily (he was her daily guest),
and took her part in all the public pleasurings which the Residenz had
to offer.
Aurelia was the person upon whom this bettering of her mother's
circumstances (evidently attributable solely to the stranger) exercised
no influence whatever. She remained shut up in her room when her mother
went out to enjoy herself in the stranger's company, and was obliged to
live just as miserably as before. This man, though about forty, had a
very fresh and youthful appearance, a tall, handsome person, and a face
by no means devoid of a certain amount of manly good looks.
Notwithstanding this, he was repugnant to Aurelia on account of his
style of behaviour. He seemed to try to constrain himself, to conduct
himself like a gentleman and person of some cultivation, but there was
constantly, and most evidently, piercing through this exterior veneer
the unmistakable evidence of his really being a totally uncultured
person, whose manners and habits were those of the very lowest ranks of
the people. And the way in which he began to look at Aurelia filled her
with terror--nay, with an abhorrence of which she could not explain the
reason to herself.
Up to this point the Baroness had never taken the trouble to say a
single word to Aurelia about this stranger. But now she told her his
name, adding that this Baron was a man of great wealth, and a distant
relation. She lauded his good looks, and his various delightful
qualities, and ended by asking Aurelia if she thought she could bring
herself to take a liking to him. Aurelia made no secret of the inward
detestation which she felt for him. The Baroness darted a glance of
lightning at her, which terrified her excessively, and told her she was
a foolish, ignorant creature. After this she was kinder to her than she
had ever been before. She was provided with grand dresses in the height
of the fashion, and taken to share in all the public pleasures. The man
now strove to gain her favour in a manner which rendered him more and
more abhorrent to her. But her delicate, maidenly instincts were
wounded in the most mortal manner, when an unfortunate accident
rendered her an unwilling, secret witness of an abominable atrocity
between her abandoned and depraved mother and him. When, a few days
after this, this man, after having taken a good deal of wine, clasped
Aurelia in his arms in a way which left no doubt as to his intention,
her desperation gave her strength, and she pushed him from her so that
he fell down on his back. She rushed away and bolted herself in her own
room. The Baroness told her, very calmly and deliberately, that,
inasmuch as the Baron paid all the household expenses, and she had not
the slightest intention of going back to the old poverty of their
previous life, this was a case in which any absurd coyness would be
both ludicrous and inconvenient, and that she would really have to make
up her mind to comply with the Baron's wishes, because, if not, he had
threatened to part company at once. Instead of being affected by
Aurelia's bitter tears and agonized intreaties, the old woman, breaking
into the most brazen and shameless laughter, talked in the most
depraved manner of a state of matters which would cause Aurelia to bid,
for ever, farewell to every feeling of enjoyment of life in such
unrestrained and detestable depravity, defying and insulting all sense
of ordinary propriety, so that her shame and terror were undescribable
at what she was obliged to hear. In fact she gave herself up for lost,
and her only means of salvation appeared to her to be immediate flight.
She had managed to possess herself of the key of the hall door, had got
together the few little necessaries which she absolutely required, and,
just after midnight, was moving softly through the dimly-lighted front
hall, at a time when she thought her mother was sure to be last asleep.
She was on the point of stepping quietly out into the street, when the
door opened with a clang, and heavy footsteps came noisily up the
steps. The Baroness came staggering and stumbling into the hall, right
up to Aurelia's feet, nothing upon her but a kind of miserable wrapper
all covered with dirt, her breast and her arms naked, her grey hair all
hanging down and dishevelled. And close after her came the stranger,
who seized her by the hair, and dragged her into the middle of the
hall, crying out in a yelling voice--
"Wait, you old devil, you witch of hell! I'll serve you up a wedding
breakfast!" And with a good thick cudgel which he had in his hand he
set to and belaboured and maltreated her in the most shameful manner.
She made a terrible screaming and outcry, whilst Aurelia, scarcely
knowing what she was about, screamed aloud out of the window for help.
It chanced that there was a patrol of armed police just passing. The
men came at once into the house.
"Seize him!" cried the Baroness, writhing in convulsions of rage and
pain. "Seize him--hold him fast! Look at his bare back. He's----"
When the police sergeant heard the Baroness speak the name he shouted
out in the greatest delight--
"Hoho! We've got you at last, Devil Alias, have we?" And in spite of
his violent resistance, they marched him off.
But notwithstanding all this which had been happening, the Baroness had
understood well enough what Aurelia's idea had been. She contented
herself with taking her somewhat roughly by the arm, pushing her into
her room, and locking her up in it, without saying a word. She went out
early the next morning, and did not come back till late in the evening.
And during this time Aurelia remained a prisoner in her room, never
seeing nor hearing a creature, and having nothing to eat or drink. This
went on for several days. The Baroness often glared at her with eyes
flashing with anger, and seemed to be wrestling with some decision,
until, one evening, letters came which seemed to cause her
satisfaction.
"Silly creature! all this is your fault. However, it seems to be all
coming right now, and all I hope is that the terrible punishment which
the Evil Spirit was threatening you with may not come upon you." This
was what the Baroness said to Aurelia, and then she became more kind
and friendly, and Aurelia, no longer distressed by the presence of the
horrible man, and having given up the idea of escaping, was allowed a
little more freedom.
Some time had elapsed, when one day, as Aurelia was sitting alone in
her room, she heard a great clamour approaching in the street. The maid
came running in, and said that they were taking the hangman's son
of ---- to prison, that he had been branded on the back there for
robbery and murder, and had escaped, and was now retaken.
Aurelia, full of anxious presentiment, tottered to the window. Her
presentiment was not fallacious. It _was_ the stranger (as we have
styled him), and he was being brought along, firmly bound upon a
tumbril, surrounded by a strong guard. He was being taken back to
undergo his sentence. Aurelia, nearly fainting, sank back into her
chair, as his frightfully wild look fell upon her, while he shook his
clenched fist up at the window with the most threatening gestures.
After this the Baroness was still a great deal away from the house; but
she never took Aurelia with her, so that the latter led a sorrowful,
miserable existence--occupied in thinking many thoughts as to destiny,
and the threatening future which might unexpectedly come upon her.
From the maidservant (who had only come into the house subsequently to
the nocturnal adventure which has been described, and who had probably
only quite recently heard about the intimacy of the terms in which the
Baroness had been living with this criminal), Aurelia learned that the
folks in the Residenz were very much grieved at the Baroness's having
been so deceived and imposed upon by a scoundrel of this description.
But Aurelia knew only too well how differently the matter had really
stood; and it seemed to her impossible that, at all events, the men of
the police, who had apprehended the fellow in the Baroness's very
house, should not have known all about the intimacy of the relations
between them, inasmuch as she herself had told them his name, and
directed their attention to the brand-marks on his back, as proofs of
his identity. Moreover, this loquacious maid sometimes talked in a very
ambiguous way about that which people were, here and there, thinking
and saying; and, for that matter, would like very much to know better
about--as to the courts having been making careful investigations, and
having gone so far as to threaten the Baroness with arrest, on account
of strange disclosures which the hangman's son had made concerning her.
Aurelia was obliged to admit, in her own mind, that it was another
proof of her mother's depraved way of looking at things that, even
after this terrible affair, she should have found it possible to
go on living in the Residenz. But at last she felt herself constrained
to leave the place where she knew she was the object of but too
well-founded, shameful suspicion, and fly to a more distant spot. On
this journey she came to the Count's Castle, and there ensued what has
been related.
Aurelia could not but consider herself marvellously fortunate to have
got clear of all these troubles. But how profound was her horror when,
speaking to her mother in this blessed sense of the merciful
intervention of Heaven in her regard, the latter, with fires of hell in
her eyes, cried out in a yelling voice--
"You are my misfortune, horrible creature that you are! But in the
midst of your imagined happiness vengeance will overtake you, if I
should be carried away by a sudden death. In those tetanic spasms,
which your birth cost me, the subtle craft of the devil----"
Here Aurelia suddenly stopped. She threw herself upon her husband's
breast, and implored him to spare her the complete recital of what the
Baroness had said to her in the delirium of her insanity. She said she
felt her inmost heart and soul crushed to pieces at the bare idea of
the frightful threatenings--far beyond the wildest imagination's
conception of the terrible--uttered to her by her mother, possessed, as
she was at the time, by the most diabolical powers.
The Count comforted his bride to the best of his ability, although he
felt himself permeated by the coldest and most deathly shuddering
horror. Even when he had regained some calmness, he could not but
confess to himself that the profound horribleness of the Baroness, even
now that she was dead, cast a deep shadow over his life, sun-bright as
it otherwise seemed to be.
In a very short time Aurelia began to alter very perceptibly. Whilst
the deathly paleness of her face, and the fatigued appearance of
her eyes, seemed to point to sortie bodily ailment, her mental
state--confused, variable, restless, as if she were constantly
frightened at something--led to the conclusion that there was some
fresh mystery perturbing her system. She shunned her husband. She shut
herself up in her rooms, sought the most solitary walks in the park.
And when she then allowed herself to be seen, her eyes, red with
weeping, her contorted features, gave unmistakable evidence of some
terrible suffering which she had been undergoing. It was in vain that
the Count took every possible pains to discover the cause of this
condition of hers, and the only thing which had any effect in bringing
him out of the hopeless state into which those remarkable symptoms of
his wife's had plunged him, was the deliberate opinion of a celebrated
doctor, that this strangely excited condition of the Countess was
nothing other than the natural result of a bodily state which indicated
the happy result of a fortunate marriage. This doctor, on one occasion
when he was at table with the Count and Countess, permitted himself
sundry allusions to this presumed state of what the German nation
calls "good hope." The Countess seemed to listen to all this with
indifference for some time. But suddenly her attention became vividly
awakened when the doctor spoke of the wonderful longings which women in
that condition become possessed by, and which they cannot resist
without the most injurious effects supervening upon their own health,
and even upon that of the child. The Countess overwhelmed the doctor
with questions, and the latter did not weary of quoting the strangest
and most entertaining cases of this description from his own practice
and experience.
"Moreover," he said, "there are cases on record in which women have
been led, by these strange, abnormal longings, to commit most terrible
crimes. There was a certain blacksmith's wife, who had such an
irresistible longing for her husband's flesh that, one night, when he
came home the worse for liquor, she set upon him with a large knife,
and cut him about so frightfully that he died in a few hours' time."
Scarcely had the doctor said these words, when the Countess fell back
in her chair fainting, and was with much difficulty recovered from the
succession of hysterical attacks which supervened. The doctor then saw
that he had acted very thoughtlessly in alluding to such a frightful
occurrence in the presence of a lady whose nervous system was in such a
delicate condition.
However, this crisis seemed to have a beneficial effect upon her, for
she became calmer; although, soon afterwards there came upon her a very
remarkable condition of rigidity, as of benumbedness. There was a
darksome fire in her eyes, and her deathlike pallor increased to such
an extent, that the Count was driven into new and most tormenting
doubts as to her condition. The most inexplicable thing was that she
never took the smallest morsel of anything to eat, evincing the utmost
repugnance at the sight of all food, particularly meat. This repugnance
was so invincible that she was constantly obliged to get up and leave
the table, with the most marked indications of loathing. The doctor's
skill was in vain, and the Count's most urgent and affectionate
entreaties were powerless to induce her to take even a single drop of
medicine of any kind. And, inasmuch as weeks, nay, months, had passed
without her having taken so much as a morsel of food, and it had become
an unfathomable mystery how she managed to keep alive, the doctor came
to the conclusion that there was something in the case which lay beyond
the domain of ordinary human science. He made some pretext for leaving
the Castle, but the Count saw clearly enough that this doctor, whose
skilfulness was well approved, and who had a high reputation to
maintain, felt that the Countess's condition was too unintelligible,
and, in fact, too strangely mysterious, for him to stay on there,
witness of an illness impossible to be understood--as to which he felt
he had no power to render assistance.
It may be readily imagined into what a state of mind all this put the
Count. But there was more to come. Just at this juncture an old,
privileged servant took an opportunity, when he found the Count alone,
of telling him that the Countess went out every night, and did not come
home till daybreak.
The Count's blood ran cold. It struck him, as a matter which he had not
quite realized before, that, for a short time back, there had fallen
upon him, regularly about midnight, a curiously unnatural sleepiness,
which he now believed to be caused by some narcotic administered to him
by the Countess, to enable her to get away unobserved. The darkest
suspicions and forebodings came into his mind. He thought of the
diabolical mother, and that, perhaps, her instincts had begun to awake
in her daughter. He thought of some possibility of a conjugal
infidelity. He remembered the terrible hangman's son.
It was so ordained that the very next night was to explain this
terrible mystery to him--that which alone could be the key to the
Countess's strange condition.
She herself used, every evening, to make the tea which the Count always
took before going to bed. This evening he did not take a drop of it,
and when he went to bed he had not the slightest symptom of the
sleepiness which generally came upon him as it got towards midnight.
However, he lay back on his pillows, and had all the appearance of
being fast asleep as usual.
And then the Countess rose up very quietly, with the utmost
precautions, came up to his bedside, held a lamp to his eyes, and then,
convinced that he was sound asleep, went softly out of the room.
His heart throbbed fast. He got up, put on a cloak, and went after the
Countess. It was a fine moonlight night, so that, though Aurelia had
got a considerable start of him, he could see her distinctly going
along in the distance in her white dress. She went through the park,
right on to the burying-ground, and there she disappeared at the
wall. The Count ran quickly after her in through the gate of the
burying-ground, which he found open. There, in the bright moonlight, he
saw a circle of frightful, spectral-looking creatures. Old women, half
naked, were cowering down upon the ground, and in the midst of them lay
the corpse of a man, which they were tearing at with wolfish appetite.
Aurelia was amongst them.
The Count took flight in the wildest horror, and ran, without any idea
where he was going or what he was doing, impelled by the deadliest
terror, all about the walks in the park, till he found himself at the
door of his own Castle as the day was breaking, bathed in cold
perspiration. Involuntarily, without the capability of taking hold of a
thought, he dashed up the steps, and went bursting through the passages
and into his own bedroom. There lay the Countess, to all appearance in
the deepest and sweetest of sleeps. And the Count would fain have
persuaded himself that some deceptive dream-image, or (inasmuch as his
cloak, wet with dew, was a proof, if any had been needed, that he had
really been to the burying-ground in the night) some soul-deceiving
phantom had been the cause of his deathly horror. He did not wait for
Aurelia's waking, but left the room, dressed, and got on to a horse.
His ride, in the exquisite morning, amid sweet-scented trees and
shrubs, whence the happy songs of the newly-awakened birds greeted him,
drove from his memory for a time the terrible images of the night. He
went back to the Castle comforted and gladdened in heart.
But when he and the Countess sate down alone together at table, and,
the dishes being brought and handed, she rose to hurry away, with
loathing, at the sight of the food as usual, the terrible conviction
that what he had seen was true, was reality, impressed itself
irresistibly on his mind. In the wildest fury he rose from his seat,
crying--
"Accursed misbirth of hell! I understand your hatred of the food of
mankind. You get your sustenance out of the burying-ground, damnable
creature that you are!"
As soon as those words had passed his lips, the Countess flew at him,
uttering a sound between a snarl and a howl, and bit him on the breast
with the fury of a hyena. He dashed her from him on to the ground,
raving fiercely as she was, and she gave up the ghost in the most
terrible convulsions.
The Count became a maniac.
"Well," said Lothair, after there had been a few minutes of silence
amongst the friends, "you have certainly kept your word, my
incomparable Cyprianus, most thoroughly and magnificently. In
comparison with this story of yours, vampirism is the merest children's
tale--a funny Christmas story, to be laughed at. Oh, truly, everything
in it is fearfully interesting, and so highly seasoned with
asaf[oe]tida that an unnaturally excited palate, which has lost its
relish for healthy, natural food, might immensely enjoy it."
"And yet," said Theodore, "our friend has discreetly thrown a veil
over a great many things, and has passed so rapidly over others,
that his story has merely caused us a passing feeling of the eery and
shuddery--for which we are duly grateful to him. I remember very well
having read this story in an old book, where everything was told with
the most prolix enumeration of all the details; and the old woman's
atrocities in particular were set forth in all their minutiæ, truly
_con amore_, so that the whole affair produced, and left behind it, a
most repulsive impression, which it took a long while to get over. I
was delighted when I had forgotten the horrible thing, and Cyprian
ought not to have recalled it to my memory; although I must admit that
he has acted in accordance with the principles of our patron saint
Serapion, and caused us a sufficient thrill of horror, particularly
towards the end. It made us all turn pale, particularly the narrator
himself!"
"We cannot hurry away too quickly from this gruesome picture," Ottmar
said. "And it will not serve as a dark background (as Vincenz expected
it would), because the figures of it are in too glaring colours. Allow
me, by way of a grand change of subject--a sort of sideways spring away
from the hell-broth which Cyprian has served up to us--to say a word or
two (merely to give Vincenz time to clear his throat, as I hear him
doing) concerning a certain aesthetic tea society, which was brought
to my memory by a little paper which accidentally came into my hand
to-day. Have I your permission, Vincenz?"
"Strictly speaking," said Vincenz, "it is a breach of all Serapiontic
rule to keep chattering in this sort of style; and not only that, but,
moreover, without any especial motive or inducement, the most unseemly
things about gruesome vampires, and other such matters, are brought
forward, so that I am obliged to shut my mouth just as I have got it
opened. But go on, my Ottmar. The hours are flying, and I shall have
the last word, like a quarrelsome woman, in spite of you. So go on, my
Ottmar, go on."
"Chance," began Ottmar, "or rather, a kindly-intentioned introduction,
brought me into the aesthetic tea society which I mentioned; and there
were circumstances which induced me, or rendered it incumbent on me, to
attend its meetings regularly for a time, although heaven knows they
were tedious and wearisome enough. It greatly vexed me that, on an
occasion when a really talented man read something which was full of
true wit, and admirably appropriate to the occasion, all the people
yawned, and grew impatient of it; whilst they were charmed and
delighted by the marrowless, spiritless trash of a conceited young
poetaster. This latter was all in the line of the gushing and the
exuberant, but he also thought very highly of his epigrams. As what
they were chiefly remarkable for was the absence of the sting in their
tails, he always gave the signal for the laugh himself by beginning it
at the proper time; and everybody then joined in it. One evening I
asked, modestly, if I might be allowed to read out a few little verses
which had occurred to me in moments of a certain amount of inspiration.
And as people were good enough to credit me with the possession of a
certain amount of brains, my request was received with a good deal of
applause. I took out my manuscript and read, with great solemnity--
"'ITALY'S MARVELS.
'When tow'rds the orient heav'n my gaze I bend,
The western sun shines warm upon my back;
Whilst, when I turn me to the beauteous west,
The golden glory strikes upon mine eyeballs.
Oh, sacred land! where nature thus displays
Such mighty marvels to the sight of men,
All adoration, quite compact of love.'
"'Ah! glorious! heavenly! dear Ottmar, and so deeply felt, Bo
sensitively expressed, right out of the fulness of your heart, so rich
in emotions!' cried the lady of the house, whilst several white ladies
and black gentlemen (I only mean black-dressed ones, with great hearts
under their jabots) followed her by crying, 'Glorious! heavenly!' and
one young lady sighed profoundly, weeping away a scalding tear. Being
asked to read something more, I gave to my voice the expression of a
deeply moved heart, and read--
"'LIFE DEPTHS.
'A little lad at Yarrow
Had a pretty little sparrow.
The other day he let it fly,
And now 'tis gone, alas! we sigh,
Heigho! the little lad at Yarrow
He hath no more the pretty sparrow.'
"There was a fresh tumult of applause. They begged for more; but I
said, modestly, that I could not but feel that stanzas of this kind,
grasping as they did comprehensively at the bases of all life, have, in
the long run, a tendency to impress the hearts of delicate, impassioned
women too strongly, so that I should prefer to quote a pair of
epigrams, in which the distinctive feature of the epigram--the sudden
flashing out of the species of squib which constitutes the tail--would
not fail to be duly appreciated. I read--
"'WIT.
'The pudgy Master Schrein
Drank many a glass of wine,
But death cut short his thread.
Then quoth his neighbour Spry
(A gossip, deep and sly),
"Our pudgy Master Schrein
No longer drinks his wine,
And, why?--because he's dead."'
"When the sparkling wit of this roguish epigram had been sufficiently
admired, I treated them to the following one in addition--
"'STINGING REPLY.
'Of Hans's book the folks make much ado;
"Say, neighbour Hamm, hast read the wonder yet?"
Thus Humm to Hamm: and Hamm (a joker he)
Said, "Faith, good Humm, I have not read it yet."'
"Everybody laughed heartily, but the lady of the house shook a minatory
forefinger at me, saying, 'Ah, wicked scoffer! Is nothing to escape
that scathing wit of yours?'
"The clever man shook hands with me as he passed me, saying--
"'Admirably done. Much obliged to you.'
"The young poet turned his back upon me with much contempt. But the
young lady who had shed a few tears over 'Italia's Marvels,' came to
me, and blushing, as she cast down her eyes, said the maidenly,
virginal heart was more disposed to open to the sense of sweet sadness
than to the comic; and she begged me to give her a copy of the first
poem I had read. She said she had felt so curiously happy and creepy
when she heard it. I promised to give it to her, and I kissed the
charming young lady's sufficiently pretty hand with all the appropriate
rapture of a bard duly appreciated by beauty, with the sole intention
of angering the poet, who cast upon me glances as of an infuriated
basilisk."
"It is strange enough," said Vincenz, "that, without being in the
smallest degree aware of it, you have spoken what may be called a
Goldsmith's prologue to my story. Of course you notice my pretty
allusion to Shakespeare's Hamlet, and his question, 'Is this a
prologue, or the posy of a ring?' What I mean is, that your prologue
consists of what you have said about the irritated poet; for I am
greatly mistaken if a poet of that kind is not one of the principal
characters in my story; which story I am now going to begin, and I
don't intend to stop it until the last word of it is out. And that last
word is just as hard to speak as the first."
Vincenz read--
THE KING'S BETROTHED.
(A Story Sketched from Life.)
CHAPTER I.
WHICH GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF THE VARIOUS CHARACTERS, AND THEIR MUTUAL
RELATIONS TO EACH OTHER, AND PREPARES THE WAY, PLEASANTLY, FOR
THE MANY MARVELLOUS AND MOST ENTERTAINING MATTERS OF WHICH THE
SUCCEEDING CHAPTERS TREAT.
It was a blessed year. In the fields the corn, the wheat, and the
barley grew most gloriously. The boys waded in the grass, and the
cattle in the clover. The trees hung so full of cherries that, with
the best will in the world, the great army of the sparrows, though
determined to peck everything bare, were forced to leave half the fruit
for a future feast. Every creature filled itself full every day at the
great guest-table of nature. Above all, however, the vegetables in Herr
Dapsul von Zabelthau's kitchen-garden had turned out such a splendid
and beautiful crop that it was no wonder Fräulein Aennchen was unable
to contain herself with joy on the subject.
We may here explain who Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau and Aennchen were.
Perhaps, dear reader, you may have at some time found yourself in that
beautiful country which is watered by the pleasant, kindly river Main.
Soft morning breezes, breathing their perfumed breath over the plain as
it shimmered in the golden splendour of the new-risen sun, you found it
impossible to sit cooped up in your stuffy carriage, and you alighted
and wandered into the little grove, through the trees of which, as you
descended towards the valley, you came in sight of a little village.
And as you were gazing, there would suddenly come towards you, through
the trees, a tall, lanky man, whose strange dress and appearance
riveted your attention. He had on a small grey felt hat on the top of a
black periwig: all his clothes were grey--coat, vest, and breeches,
grey stockings--even his walking-stick coloured grey. He would come up
to you with long strides, and staring at you with great sunken eyes,
seemingly not aware of your existence, would cry out, almost running
you down, "Good morning, sir!" And then, like one awaking from a dream,
he would add in a hollow, mournful voice, "Good morning! Oh, sir,
how thankful we ought to be that we have a good, fine morning. The
poor people at Santa Cruz just had two earthquakes, and now--at this
moment--rain falling in torrents." While you have been thinking what to
say to this strange creature, he, with an "Allow me, sir," has gently
passed his hand across your brow, and inspected the palm of your hand.
And saying, in the same hollow, melancholy accents as before, "God
bless you, sir! You have a good constellation," has gone striding on
his way.
This odd personage was none other than Herr Dapsul Von Zabelthau, whose
sole--rather miserable--possession is the village, or hamlet, of
Dapsulheim, which lies before you in this most pleasant and smiling
country into which you now enter. You are looking forward to something
in the shape of breakfast, but in the little inn things have rather a
gloomy aspect. Its small store of provisions was cleared out at the
fair, and as you can't be expected to be content with nothing besides
milk, they tell you to go to the Manor House, where the gracious
Fräulein Anna will entertain you hospitably with whatever may be
forthcoming there. Accordingly, thither you betake yourself without
further ceremony.
Concerning this Manor House, there is nothing further to say than that
it has doors and windows, as of yore had that of Baron Tondertontonk in
Westphalia. But above the hall-door the family coat-of-arms makes a
fine show, carved there in wood with New Zealand skilfulness. And this
Manor House derives a peculiar character of its own from the
circumstance that its north side leans upon the enceinte, or outer line
of defence belonging to an old ruined castle, so that the back entrance
is what was formerly the castle gate, and through it one passes at once
into the courtyard of that castle, in the middle of which the tall
watch-tower still stands undamaged. From the hall door, which is
surmounted by the coat-of-arms, there comes meeting you a red-cheeked
young lady, who, with her clear blue eyes and fair hair, is to be
called very pretty indeed, although her figure may be considered just
the least bit too roundly substantial. A personification of friendly
kindness, she begs you to go in, and as soon as she ascertains your
wants, serves you up the most delicious milk, a liberal allowance of
first-rate bread and butter, uncooked ham--as good as you would find in
Bayonne--and a small glass of beetroot brandy. Meanwhile, this young
lady (who is none other than Fräulein Anna von Zabelthau) talks to you
gaily and pleasantly of rural matters, displaying anything but a
limited knowledge of such subjects. Suddenly, however, there resounds a
loud and terrible voice, as if from the skies, crying "Anna, Anna,
Anna!" This rather startles you; but Fräulein Anna says, pleasantly,
"There's papa back from his walk, calling for his breakfast from his
study." "Calling from his study," you repeat, or enquire, astonished.
"Yes," says Fräulein Anna, or Fräulein Aennchen, as the people call
her. "Yes; papa's study is up in the tower there, and he calls down
through the speaking trumpet." And you see Aennchen open the narrow
door of the old lower, with a similar _déjeuner à la fourchette_ to
that which you have had yourself, namely, a liberal helping of bread
and ham, not forgetting the beetroot brandy, and go briskly in at it.
But she is back directly, and taking you all over the charming
kitchen-garden, has so much to say about feather-sage, rapuntika,
English turnips, little greenheads, montrue, great yellow, and so
forth, that you have no idea that all these fine names merely mean
various descriptions of cabbages and salads.
I think, dear reader, that this little glimpse which you have had of
Dapsulheim is sufficient to enable you to understand all the outs and
ins of the establishment, concerning which I have to narrate to you all
manner of extraordinary, barely comprehensible, matters and
occurrences. Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau had, during his youth, very
rarely left his parents' country place. They had been people of
considerable means. His tutor, after teaching him foreign languages,
particularly those of the East, fostered a natural inclination which he
possessed towards mysticism, or rather, occupying himself with the
mysterious. This tutor died, leaving as a legacy to young Dapsul a
whole library of occult science, into the very depths of which he
proceeded to plunge. His parents dying, he betook himself to long
journeyings, and (as his tutor had impressed him with the necessity of
doing) to Egypt and India. When he got home again, after many years, a
cousin had looked after his affairs with such zeal that there was
nothing left to him but the little hamlet of Dapsulheim. Herr Dapsul
was too eagerly occupied in the pursuit of the sun-born gold of a
higher sphere to trouble himself about that which was earthly. He
rather felt obliged to his cousin for preserving to him the pleasant,
friendly Dapsulheim, with the fine, tall tower, which might have been
built expressly on purpose for astrological operations, and in the
upper storey and topmost height of which he at once established his
study. And indeed he thanked his said cousin from the bottom of his
heart.
This careful cousin now pointed out that Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau was
bound to marry. Dapsul immediately admitted the necessity, and, without
more ado, married at once the lady whom his cousin had selected for
him. This lady disappeared almost as quickly as she had appeared on the
scene. She died, after bearing him a daughter. The cousin attended to
the marriage, the baptism, and the funeral; so that Dapsul, up in his
tower, paid very little attention to either. For there was a very
remarkable comet visible during most of the time, and Dapsul, ever
melancholy and anticipative of evil, considered that he was involved in
its influence.
The little daughter, under the careful up-bringing of an old
grand-aunt, developed a remarkable aptitude for rural affairs. She had
to begin at the very beginning, and, so to speak, rise from the ranks,
serving successively as goose-girl, maid-of-all-work, upper farm-maid,
housekeeper, and, finally, as mistress, so that Theory was all along
illustrated and impressed upon her mind by a salutary share of
Practice. She was exceedingly fond of ducks and geese, hens and
pigeons, and even the tender broods of well-shaped piglings she was by
no means indifferent to, though she did not put a ribbon and a bell
round a little white sucking-pig's neck and make it into a sort of
lap-dog, as a certain young lady, in another place, was once known to
do. But more than anything--more than even to the fruit trees--she was
devoted to the kitchen-garden. From her grand-aunt's attainments in
this line she had derived very remarkable theoretical knowledge of
vegetable culture (which the reader has seen for himself), as regarded
digging of the ground, sowing the seed, and setting the plants.
Fräulein Aennchen not only superintended all these operations, but lent
most valuable manual aid. She wielded a most vigorous spade--her
bitterest enemy would have admitted this. So that while Herr Dapsul von
Zabelthau was immersed in astrological observations and other important
matters, Fräulein Aennchen carried on the management of the place in
the ablest possible manner, Dapsul looking after the celestial part of
the business, and Aennchen managing the terrestrial side of things with
unceasing vigilance and care.
As above said, it was small wonder that Aennchen was almost beside
herself with delight at the magnificence of the yield which this season
had produced in the kitchen-garden. But the carrot-bed was what
surpassed everything else in the garden in its promise.
"Oh, my dear, beautiful carrots!" cried Anna over and over again, and
she clapped her hands, danced, and jumped about, and conducted herself
like a child who has been given a grand Christmas present.
And indeed it seemed as though the carrot-children underground were
taking part in Aennchen's gladness, for some extremely delicate
laughter, which just made itself heard, was undoubtedly proceeding from
the carrot-bed. Aennchen didn't, however, pay much heed to it, but ran
to meet one of the farm-men who was coming, holding up a letter, and
calling out to her, "For you, Fräulein Aennchen. Gottlieb brought it
from the town."
Aennchen saw immediately, from the hand writing, that it was from none
other than young Herr Amandus von Nebelstern, the son of a neighbouring
proprietor, now at the university. During the time when he was living
at home, and in the habit of running over to Dapsulheim every day,
Amandus had arrived at the conviction that in all his life he never
could love anybody except Aennchen. Similarly, Aennchen was perfectly
certain that she could never really care the least bit about anybody
else but this brown-locked Amandus. Thus both Aennchen and Amandus had
come to the conclusion and arrangement that they were to be married as
soon as ever they could--the sooner the better--and be the very
happiest married couple in the wide world.
Amandus had at one time been a bright, natural sort of lad enough, but
at the university he had got into the hands of God knows who, and had
been induced to fancy himself a marvellous poetical genius, as also to
betake himself to an extreme amount of absurd extravagance in
expression of ideas. He carried this so far that he soon soared far
away beyond everything which prosaic idiots term Sense and Reason
(maintaining at the same time, as they do, that both are perfectly
co-existent with the utmost liveliness of imagination).
It was from this young Amandus that the letter came which Aennchen
opened and read, as follows:--
"HEAVENLY MAIDEN,--
"Dost thou see, dost thou feel, dost thou not image and figure to
thyself, thy Amandus, how, circumambiated by the orange-flower-laden
breath of the dewy evening, he is lying on his back in the grass,
gazing heavenward with eyes filled with the holiest love and the
most longing adoration? The thyme and the lavender, the rose
and the gilliflower, as also the yellow-eyed narcissus and the
shamefaced violet--he weaveth into garlands. And the flowers are
love-thoughts--thoughts of thee, oh, Anna! But doth feeble prose beseem
inspired lips? Listen! oh, listen how I can only love, and speak of my
love, sonnetically!
"Love flames aloft in thousand eager sunspheres,
Joy wooeth joy within the heart so warmly:
Down from the darkling sky soft stars are shining.
Back-mirrored from the deep, still wells of love-tears.
"Delight, alas! doth die of joy too burning--
The sweetest fruit hath aye the bitt'rest kernel--
While longing beckons from the violet distance,
In pain of love my heart to dust is turning.
"In fiery billows rage the ocean surges,
Yet the bold swimmer dares the plunge full arduous,
And soon amid the waves his strong course urges.
"And on the shore, now near, the jacinth shoots:
The faithful heart holds firm: 'twill bleed to death;
But heart's blood is the sweetest of all roots.[1]
"Oh, Anna! when thou readest this sonnet of all sonnets, may all the
heavenly rapture permeate thee in which all my being was dissolved when
I wrote it down, and then read it out, to kindred minds, conscious,
like myself, of life's highest. Think, oh, think I sweet maiden of
"Thy faithful, enraptured,
"AMANDUS VON NEBELSTERN.
"P.S.--Don't forget, oh, sublime virgin! when answering this, to send a
pound or two of that Virginia tobacco which you grow yourself. It burns
splendidly, and has a far better flavour than the Porto Rico which the
Bürschen smoke when they go to the Kneipe."
[Footnote 1: The translator may point out that the original of this
nonsense is, itself, intentionally nonsense, and that he has done his
best to render it into English--not an easy task.--A. E.]
Fräulein Aennchen pressed the letter to her lips, and said, "Oh, how
dear, how beautiful! And the darling verses, rhyming so beautifully.
Oh, if I were only clever enough to understand it all; but I suppose
nobody can do that but a student. I wonder what that about the 'roots'
means? I suppose it must be the long red English carrots, or, who
knows, it may be the rapuntica. Dear fellow!"
That very day Fräulein Aennchen made it her business to pack up the
tobacco, and she took a dozen of her finest goose-quills to the
schoolmaster, to get him to make them into pens. Her intention was to
sit down at once and begin her answer to the precious letter. As she
was going out of the kitchen-garden, she was again followed by a very
faint, almost imperceptible, sound of delicate laughter; and if she had
paid a little attention to what was going on, she would have been sure
to hear a little delicate voice saying, "Pull me, pull me! I am
ripe--ripe--ripe!" However, as we have said, she paid no attention, and
did not hear this.
CHAPTER II.
WHICH CONTAINS AN ACCOUNT OF THE FIRST WONDERFUL EVENT, AND OTHER
MATTERS DESERVING OF PERUSAL, WITHOUT WHICH THIS TALE COULD HAVE
HAD NO EXISTENCE.
Herr Dapsul Von Zabelthau generally came down from his astronomical
tower about noon, to partake of a frugal repast with his daughter,
which usually lasted a very short time, and during which there was
generally a great predominance of silence, for Dapsul did not like to
talk. And Aennchen did not trouble him by speaking much, and this all
the more for the reason that if her papa did actually begin to talk, he
would come out with all sorts of curious unintelligible nonsense, which
made a body's head giddy. This day, however, her head was so full, and
her mind so excited and taken up with the flourishing state of the
kitchen-garden, and the letter from her beloved Amandus, that she
talked of both subjects incessantly, mixed up, without leaving off.
At last Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau laid down his knife and fork,
stopped his ears with his hands, and cried out, "Oh, the dreary
higgledy-piggledy of chatter and gabble!"
Aennchen stopped, alarmed, and he went on to say, in the melancholy
sustained tones which were characteristic of him, "With regard to the
vegetables, my dear daughter, I have long been cognizant that the
manner in which the stars have worked together this season has been
eminently favourable to those growths, and the earthly man will be
amply supplied with cabbage, radishes, and lettuce, so that the earthly
matter may duly increase and withstand the fire of the world-spirit,
like a properly kneaded pot. The gnomic principle will resist the
attacks of the salamander, and I shall have the enjoyment of eating the
parsnips which you cook so well. With regard to young Amandus von
Nebelstern, I have not the slightest objection to your marrying him as
soon as he comes back from the university. Simply send Gottlieb up to
tell me when your marriage is going to take place, so that I may go
with you to the church."
Herr Dapsul kept silence for a few seconds, and then, without looking
at Aennchen, whose face was glowing with delight, he went on, smiling
and striking his glass with his fork (two things which he seldom did at
all, though he always did them together) to say, "Your Amandus has got
to be, and cannot help being, where and what he is. He is, in fact, a
gerund; and I shall merely tell you, my dear Aennchen, that I drew up
his horoscope a long while ago. His constellation is favourable enough
on the whole, for the matter of that. He has Jupiter in the ascending
node, Venus regarding in the sextile. The trouble is, that the path of
Sirius cuts across, and, just at the point of intersection, there
is a great danger from which Amandus delivers his betrothed. The
danger--what it is--is indiscoverable, because some strange being,
which appears to set at defiance all astrological science, seems to be
concerned in it. At the same time, it is evident and certain that it is
only the strange psychical condition which mankind terms craziness, or
mental derangement, which will enable Amandus to accomplish this
deliverance. Oh, my daughter!" (here Herr Dapsul fell again into his
usual pathetic tone), "may no mysterious power, which keeps itself
hidden from my seer-eyes, come suddenly across your path, so that young
Amandus von Nebelstern may not have to rescue you from any other danger
but that of being an old maid." He sighed several times consecutively,
and then continued, "But the path of Sirius breaks off abruptly after
this danger, and Venus and Jupiter, divided before, come together
again, reconciled."
Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau had not spoken so much for years as on this
occasion. He arose exhausted, and went back up into his tower.
Aennchen had her answer to Herr von Nebelstern ready in good time next
morning. It was as follows:--
"MY OWN DEAREST AMANDUS--
"You cannot believe what joy your letter has given me. I have told papa
about it, and he has promised to go to church with us when we're
married. Be sure to come back from the university as soon as ever you
can. Oh! if I only could _quite_ understand your darling verses, which
rhyme so beautifully. When I read them to myself aloud they sound
wonderful, and _then_ I think I _do_ understand them quite well. But
soon everything grows confused, and seems to get away from me, and I
feel as if I had been reading a lot of mere words that somehow don't
belong to each other at all. The schoolmaster says this must be so, and
that it's the new fashionable way of speaking. But, you see, I'm--oh,
well!--I'm only a stupid, foolish creature. Please to write and tell me
if I couldn't be a student for a little time, without neglecting my
housework. I suppose that couldn't be, though, could it? Well, well:
when once we're husband and wife, perhaps I may pick up a little of
your learning, and learn a little of this new, fashionable way of
speaking.
"I send you the Virginian tobacco, my dearest Amandus. I've packed my
bonnet-box full of it, as much as ever I could get into it; and, in the
meantime, I've put my new straw hat on to Charles the Great's head--you
know he stands in the spare bedroom, although he has no feet, being
only a bust, as you remember.
"Please don't laugh, Amandus dear; but I have made some poetry myself,
and it rhymes quite nicely, some of it. Write and tell me how a person,
without learning, can know so well what rhymes to what? Just listen,
now--
"I love you, dearest, as my life.
And long at once to be your wife.
The bright blue sky is full of light,
When evening comes the stars shine bright.
So you must love me always truly,
And never cause me pain unduly,
I pack up the 'baccy you asked me to send,
And I hope it will yield you enjoyment no end.
"There! you must take the will for the deed, and when I learn the
fashionable way of speaking, I'll do some better poetry. The yellow
lettuces are promising splendidly this year--never was such a crop; so
are the French beans; but my little dachshund, Feldmann, gave the big
gander a terrible bite in the leg yesterday. However, we can't have
everything perfect in this world. A hundred kisses in imagination, my
dearest Amandus, from
"Your most faithful fiancée,
"ANNA VON ZABELTHAU.
"P.S.--I've been writing in an awful hurry, and that's the reason the
letters are rather crooked here and there.
"P.S.--But you mustn't mind about that. Though I may write a little
crookedly, my heart is all straight, and I am
"Always your faithful
"ANNA.
"P.S.--Oh, good gracious! I had almost forgot--thoughtless thing that I
am. Papa sends you his kind regards, and says you have got to be, and
cannot help being, where and what you are; and that you are to rescue
me from a terrible danger some day. Now, I'm very glad of this, and
remain, once more,
"Your most true and loving
"ANNA VON ZABELTHAU."
It was a good weight off Fräulein Aennchen's mind when she had written
this letter; it had cost her a considerable effort. So she felt
light-hearted and happy when she had put it in its envelope, sealed
it up without burning the paper or her own fingers, and given it,
together with the bonnet-boxful of tobacco, to Gottlieb to take to the
post-office in the town. When she had seen properly to the poultry in
the yard, she ran as fast as she could to the place she loved best--the
kitchen-garden. When she got to the carrot-bed she thought it was about
time to be thinking of the sweet-toothed people in the town, and be
palling the earliest of the carrots. The servant-girl was called in to
help in this process. Fräulein Aennchen walked, gravely and seriously,
into the middle of the bed, and grasped a stately carrot-plant. But on
her pulling at it a strange sound made itself heard. Do not, reader,
think of the witches' mandrake-root, and the horrible whining and
howling which pierces the heart of man when it is drawn from the earth.
No; the tone which was heard on this occasion was like very delicate,
joyous laughter. But Fräulein Aennchen let the carrot-plant go, and
cried out, rather frightened, "Eh! Who's that laughing at me?" But
there being nothing more to be heard she took hold of the carrot-plant
again--which seemed to be finer and better grown than any of the
rest--and, notwithstanding the laughing, which began again, pulled up
the very finest and most splendid carrot ever beheld by mortal eye.
When she looked at it more closely she gave a cry of joyful surprise,
so that the maid-servant came running up; and she also exclaimed aloud
at the beautiful miracle which disclosed itself to her eyes. For there
was a beautiful ring firmly attached to the carrot, with a shining
topaz mounted in it.
"Oh," cried the maid, "that's for you! It's your wedding-ring. Put it
on directly."
"Stupid nonsense!" said Fräulein Aennchen. "I must get my
wedding-ring from Herr Amandus von Nebelstern, not from a carrot."
However, the longer she looked at the ring the better she was pleased
with it; and, indeed, it was of such wonderfully fine workmanship that
it seemed to surpass anything ever produced by human skill. On the ring
part of it there were hundreds and hundreds of tiny little figures
twined together in the most manifold groupings, hardly to be made out
with the naked eye at first, so microscopically minute were they. But
when one looked at them closely for a little while they appeared to
grow bigger and more distinct, and to come to life, and dance in pretty
combinations. And the fire of the gem was of such a remarkable water
that the like of it could not have been found in the celebrated Dresden
collection.
"Who knows," said the maid, "how long this beautiful ring may have been
underground? And it must have got shoved up somehow, and then the
carrot has grown right through it."
Fräulein Aennchen took the ring off the carrot, and it was strange how
the latter suddenly slipped through her fingers and disappeared in the
ground. But neither she nor the maid paid much heed to this
circumstance, being lost in admiration of the beautiful ring, which the
young lady immediately put on the little finger of the right hand
without more ado. As she did so, she felt a stinging pain all up her
finger, from the root of it to the point; but this pain went away again
as quickly as it had come.
Of course she told her father, at mid-day, all about this strange
adventure at the carrot-bed, and showed him the beautiful ring which
had been sticking upon the carrot. She was going to take it off that he
might examine it the better, but felt the same stinging kind of pain as
when she put it on. And this pain lasted all the time she was trying to
get it off, so that she had to give up trying. Herr Dapsul scanned the
ring upon her finger with the most careful attention. He made her
stretch her finger out, and describe with it all sorts of circles in
all directions. After which he fell into a profound meditation, and
went up into his tower without uttering a syllable. Aennchen heard him
giving vent to a very considerable amount of groaning and sighing as he
went.
Next morning, when she was chasing the big cock about the yard (he was
bent on all manner of mischief, and was skirmishing particularly with
the pigeons), Herr Dapsul began lamenting so fearfully down from the
tower through the speaking trumpet that she cried up to him through her
closed hand, "Oh papa dear, what are you making such a terrible howling
for? The fowls are all going out of their wits."
Heir Dapsul hailed down to her through the speaking trumpet, saying,
"Anna, my daughter Anna, come up here to me immediately."
Fräulein Aennchen was much astonished at this command, for her papa had
never in all his life asked her to go into the tower, but rather had
kept the door of it carefully shut. So that she was conscious of a
certain sense of anxiety as she climbed the narrow winding stair, and
opened the heavy door which led into its one room. Herr Dapsul von
Zabelthau was seated upon a large armchair of singular form, surrounded
by curious instruments and dusty books. Before him was a kind of stand,
upon which there was a paper stretched in a frame, with a number of
lines drawn upon it. He had on a tall pointed cap, a wide mantle of
grey calimanco, and on his chin a long white beard, so that he had
quite the appearance of a magician. On account of his false beard,
Aennchen didn't know him a bit just at first, and looked curiously
about to see if her father were hidden away in some corner; but when
she saw that the man with the beard on was really papa, she laughed
most heartily, and asked if it was Yule-time, and he was going to act
Father Christmas.
Paying no heed to this enquiry, Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau took a small
tool of iron in his hand, touched Aennchen's forehead with it, and then
stroked it along her right arm several times, from the armpit to the
tip of the little finger. While this was going on she had to sit in the
armchair, which he had quitted, and to lay the finger which had the
ring upon it on the paper which was in the frame, in such a position
that the topaz touched the central point where all the lines came
together. Yellow rays immediately shot out from the topaz all round,
colouring the paper all over with deep yellow light. Then the lines
went flickering and crackling up and down, and the little figures which
were on the ring seemed to be jumping merrily about all over the paper.
Herr Dapsul, without taking his eyes from the paper, had taken hold of
a thin plate of some metal, which he held up high over his head with
both arms, and was proceeding to press it down upon the paper; but ere
he could do so he slipped his foot on the smooth stone floor, and fell,
anything but softly, upon the sitting portion of his body; whilst the
metal plate, which he had dropped in an instinctive attempt to break
his fall, and save damage to his _Os Coccygis_, went clattering down
upon the stones. Fräulein Aennchen awoke, with a gentle "Ah!" from a
strange dreamy condition in which she had been. Herr Dapsul with some
difficulty raised himself, put the grey sugar-loaf cap, which had
fallen off, on again, arranged the false beard, and sate himself down
opposite to Aennchen upon a pile of folio volumes.
"My daughter," he said, "my daughter Anna; what were your sensations?
Describe your thoughts, your feelings? What were the forms seen by the
eye of the spirit within your inner being?"
"Ah!" answered Anna, "I was so happy; I never was so happy in all my
life. And I thought of Amandus von Nebelstern. And I saw him quite
plainly before my eyes, but he was much better looking than he used to
be, and he was smoking a pipe of the Virginian tobacco that I sent him,
and seemed to be enjoying it tremendously. Then all at once I felt a
great appetite for young carrots with sausages; and lo and behold!
there the dishes were before me, and I was just going to help myself to
some when I woke up from the dream in a moment, with a sort of painful
start."
"Amandus von Nebelstern, Virginia canaster, carrots, sausages," quoth
Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau to his daughter very reflectively. And he
signed to her to stay where she was, for she was preparing to go away.
"Happy is it for you, innocent child," he began, in a tone much more
lamentable than even his usual one, "that you are as yet not initiated
into the profounder mysteries of the universe, and are unaware of the
threatening perils which surround you. You know nothing of the
supernatural science of the sacred cabbala. True, you will never
partake the celestial joy of those wise ones who, having attained the
highest step, need never eat or drink except for their pleasure, and
are exempt from human necessities. But then, you have not to endure and
suffer the pain of attainment to that step, like your unhappy father,
who is still far more liable to attacks of mere human giddiness, to
whom that which he laboriously discovers only causes terror and awe,
and who is still, from purely earthly necessities, obliged to eat and
drink and, in fact, submit to human requirements. Learn, my charming
child, blessed as you are with absence of knowledge, that the depths of
the earth, and the air, water, and fire, are filled with spiritual
beings of higher and yet of more restricted nature than mankind. It
seems unnecessary, my little unwise one, to explain to you the peculiar
nature and characteristics of the gnomes, the salamanders, sylphides,
and undines; you would not be able to understand them. To give you some
slight idea of the danger which you may be undergoing, it is sufficient
that I should tell you that these spirits are always striving eagerly
to enter into unions with human beings; and as they are well aware that
human beings are strongly adverse to those unions, they employ all
manner of subtle and crafty artifices to delude such of the latter as
they have fixed their affections upon. Often it is a twig, a flower, a
glass of water, a fire-steel, or something else, in appearance of no
importance, which they employ as a means of compassing their intent. It
is true that unions of this sort often turn out exceedingly happily, as
in the case of two priests, mentioned by Prince della Mirandola, who
spent forty years of the happiest possible wedlock with a spirit of
this description. It is true, moreover, that the most renowned sages
have been the offspring of such unions between human beings and
elementary spirits. Thus, the great Zoroaster was a son of the
salamander Oromasis; the great Apollonius, the sage Merlin, the valiant
Count of Cleve, and the great cabbalist, Ben-Syra, were the glorious
fruits of marriages of this description, and according to Paracelsus
the beautiful Melusina was no other than a sylphide. But yet,
notwithstanding, the peril of such a union is much too great, for not
only do the elementary spirits require of those on whom they confer
their favours that the clearest light of the profoundest wisdom shall
have arisen and shall shine upon them, but besides this they are
extraordinarily touchy and sensitive, and revenge offences with extreme
severity. Thus, it once happened that a sylphide, who was in union with
a philosopher, on an occasion when he was talking with friends about a
pretty woman--and perhaps rather too warmly--suddenly allowed her white
beautifully-formed limb to become visible in the air, as if to convince
the friends of her beauty, and then killed the poor philosopher
on the spot. But ah! why should I refer to others? Why don't I
speak of myself? I am aware that for the last twelve years I have
been beloved by a sylphide, but she is timorous and coy, and I am
tortured by the thought of the danger of fettering her to me more
closely by cabbalistic processes, inasmuch as I am still much too
dependent on earthly necessities, and consequently lack the necessary
degree of wisdom. Every morning I make up my mind to fast, and I
succeed in letting breakfast pass without touching any; but when
mid-day comes, oh! Anna, my daughter Anna, you know well that I eat
tremendously."
These latter words Herr Dapsul uttered almost in a howl, while bitter
tears rolled down his lean chop-fallen cheeks. He then went on more
calmly--
"But I take the greatest of pains to behave towards the elementary
spirit who is thus favourably disposed towards me with the utmost
refinement of manners, the most exquisite _galanterie_. I never venture
to smoke a pipe of tobacco without employing the proper preliminary
cabbalistic precautions, for I cannot tell whether or not my tender
air-spirit may like the brand of the tobacco, and so be annoyed at the
defilement of her element. And I take the same precautions when I cut a
hazel twig, pluck a flower, eat a fruit, or strike fire, all my efforts
being directed to avoid giving offence to any elementary spirit. And
yet--there, you see that nutshell, which I slid upon, and, falling over
backwards, completely nullified the whole important experiment, which
would have revealed to me the whole mystery of the ring? I do not
remember that I have ever eaten a nut in this chamber, completely
devoted as it is to science (you know now why I have my breakfast on
the stairs), and it is all the clearer that some little gnome must have
been hidden away in that shell, very likely having come here to
prosecute his studies, and watch some of my experiments. For the
elementary spirits are fond of human science, particularly such kinds
of it as the uninitiated vulgar consider to be, if not foolish and
superstitious, at all events beyond the powers of the human mind to
comprehend, and for that reason style 'dangerous.' Thus, when I
accidentally trod upon this little student's head, I suppose he got in
a rage, and threw me down. But it is probable that he had a deeper
reason for preventing me from finding out the secret of the ring. Anna,
my dear Anna, listen to this. I had ascertained that there is a gnome
bestowing his favour upon you, and to judge by the ring he must be a
gnome of rank and distinction, as well as of superior cultivation. But,
my dear Anna, my most beloved little stupid girl, how do you suppose
you are going to enter into any kind of union with an elementary spirit
without running the most terrible risk? If you had read Cassiodorus
Remus you might, of course, reply that, according to his veracious
chronicle, the celebrated Magdalena de la Croix, abbess of a convent at
Cordova, in Spain, lived for thirty years in the happiest wedlock
imaginable with a little gnome, whilst a similar result followed in
the case of a sylph and the young Gertrude, a nun in Kloster Nazareth,
near Cologne. But, then, think of the learned pursuits of those
ecclesiastical ladies and of your own; what a mighty difference.
Instead of reading in learned books you are often employing your time
in feeding hens, geese, ducks, and other creatures, which simply molest
and annoy all cabbalists; instead of watching the course of the stars,
the heavens, you dig in the earth; instead of deciphering the traces of
the future in skilfully-constructed horoscopes you are churning milk
into butter, and putting sauerkraut up to pickle for mean everyday
winter use; although, really, I must say that for my own part I should
be very sorry to be without such articles of food. Say, is all this
likely, in the long run, to content a refined philosophic elementary
spirit? And then, oh Anna! it must be through you that the Dapsulheim
line must continue, which earthly demand upon your being you cannot
refuse to obey in any possible case. Yet, in connection with this ring,
you in your instinctive way felt a strange irreflective sense of
physical enjoyment. By means of the operation in which I was engaged, I
desired and intended to break the power of the ring, and free you
entirely from the gnome which is pursuing you. That operation failed,
in consequence of the trick played me by the little student in the
nut-shell. And yet, notwithstanding, I feel inspired by a courage such
as I never felt before to do battle with this elementary spirit. You
are my child, whom I begot, not indeed with a sylphide, salamandress,
or other elementary spirit, but of that poor country lady of a fine old
family, to whom the God-forgotten neighbours gave the nickname of the
'goat-girl' on account of her idyllic nature. For she used to go out
with a flock of pretty little white goats, and pasture them on the
green hillocks, I meanwhile blowing a reed-pipe on my tower, a
love-stricken young fool, by way of accompaniment. Yes, you are my own
child, my flesh and blood, and I mean to rescue you. Here, this mystic
file shall befree you from the pernicious ring."
With this, Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau took up a small file and began
filing away with it at the ring. But scarcely had he passed it once or
twice backwards and forwards when Fräulein Aennchen cried aloud in
pain, "Papa, papa, you're filing my finger off!" And actually there was
dark thick blood coming oozing from under the ring. Seeing this, Herr
Dapsul let the file fall upon the floor, sank half fainting into the
armchair, and cried, in utter despair, "Oh--oh--oh--oh! It is all over
with me! Perhaps the infuriated gnome may come this very hour and bite
my head off unless the sylphide saves me. Oh, Anna, Anna,
go--fly!"
As her father's extraordinary talk had long made her wish herself far
enough away, she ran downstairs like the wind.
CHAPTER III.
SOME ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF THE ARRIVAL OF A REMARKABLE PERSONAGE IN
DAPSULHEIM, AND OF WHAT FOLLOWED FURTHER.
Herr Dapsul Von Zabelthau had just embraced his daughter with many
tears, and was moving off to ascend his tower, where he dreaded every
moment the alarming visit of the incensed gnome, when the sound of a
horn, loud and clear, made itself heard, and into the courtyard came
bounding and curvetting a little cavalier of sufficiently strange and
amusing appearance. His yellow horse was not at all large, and was of
delicate build, so that the little rider, in spite of his large
shapeless head, did not look so dwarfish as might otherwise have been
the case, as he sate a considerable height above the horse's head. But
this was attributable to the length of his body, for what of him hung
over the saddle in the nature of legs and feet was hardly worth
mentioning. For the rest, the little fellow had on a very rich habit of
gold-yellow atlas, a fine high cap with a splendid grass-green plume,
and riding-boots of beautifully polished mahogany. With a resounding
"P-r-r-r-r-r-r!" he reined up before Herr von Zabelthau, and seemed to
be going to dismount. But he suddenly slipped under the horse's belly
as quick as lightning, and having got to the other side of him, threw
himself three times in succession some twelve ells up in the air,
turning six somersaults in every ell, and then alighted on his head in
the saddle. Standing on his head there, he galloped backwards,
forwards, and sideways in all sorts of extraordinary curves and ups and
downs, his feet meanwhile playing trochees, dactyls, pyrrhics, &c., in
the air. When this accomplished gymnast and trick-act rider at length
stood still, and politely saluted, there were to be seen on the ground
of the courtyard the words, "My most courteous greeting to you and your
lady daughter, most highly respected Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau." These
words he had ridden into the ground in handsome Roman uncial letters.
Thereupon, he sprang from his horse, turned three Catherine wheels, and
said that he was charged by his gracious master, the Herr Baron
Porphyrio von Ockerodastes, called "Cordovanspitz," to present his
compliments to Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau, and to say, that if the
latter had no objection, the Herr Baron proposed to pay him a friendly
visit of a day or two, as he was expecting presently to be his nearest
neighbour.
Herr Dapsul looked more dead than alive, so pale and motionless did he
stand, leaning un his daughter. Scarcely had a half involuntary,
"It--will--give--me--much--pleasure," escaped his trembling lips, when
the little horseman departed with lightning speed, and similar
ceremonies to those with which he had arrived.
"Ah, my daughter!" cried Herr Dapsul, weeping and lamenting, "alas! it
is but too certain that this is the gnome come to carry you off, and
twist my unfortunate neck. But we will pluck up the very last scrap of
courage which we can scrape together. Perhaps it may be still possible
to pacify this irritated elementary spirit. We must be as careful in
our conduct towards him as ever we can. I will at once read to you, my
dear child, a chapter or two of Lactantius or Thomas Aquinas concerning
the mode of dealing with elementary spirits, so that you mayn't make
some tremendous mistake or other."
But before he could go and get hold of Lactantius or Thomas Aquinas, a
band was heard in the immediate proximity, sounding very much like the
kind of performance which children who are musical enough get up about
Christmas-time. And a fine long procession was coming up the street.
At the head of it rode some sixty or seventy little cavaliers on
little yellow horses, all dressed like the one who had arrived as
avant-courier at first, in yellow habits, pointed caps, and boots of
polished mahogany. They were followed by a couch of purest crystal,
drawn by eight yellow horses, and behind this came well on to forty
other less magnificent coaches, some with six horses, some with only
four. And there were swarms of pages, running footmen, and other
attendants, moving up and down amongst and around those coaches in
brilliant costumes, so that the whole thing formed a sight as charming
as uncommon. Herr Dapsul stood sunk in gloomy amazement. Aennchen, who
had never dreamt that the world could contain such lovely delightful
creatures as these little horses and people, was quite out of her
senses with delight, and forgot everything, even to shut her mouth,
which she had opened to emit a cry of joy.
The coach and eight drew up before Herr Dapsul. Riders jumped from
their horses, pages and attendants came hurrying forward, and the
personage who was now lifted down the steps of the coach on their arms
was none other than the Herr Baron Porphyrio von Ockerodastes,
otherwise known as Cordovanspitz. Inasmuch as regarded his figure, the
Herr Baron was far from comparable to the Apollo of Belvedere, or even
the Dying Gladiator. For, besides the circumstances that he was
scarcely three feet high, one-third of his small body consisted of his
evidently too large and broad head, which was, moreover, adorned by a
tremendously long Roman nose and a pair of great round projecting
eyes. And as his body was disproportionately long for his height,
there was nothing left for his legs and feet to occupy but some four
inches or so. This small space was made the most of, however,
for the little Baron's feet were the neatest and prettiest little
things ever beheld. No doubt they seemed to be scarcely strong enough
to support the large, important head. For the Baron's gait was somewhat
tottery and uncertain, and he even toppled over altogether pretty
frequently, but got up upon his feet immediately, after the manner of a
jack-in-the-box. So that this toppling over had a considerable
resemblance to some rather eccentric dancing step more than to anything
else one could compare it to. He had on a close-fitting suit of some
shining gold fabric, and a headdress, which was almost like a crown,
with an enormous plume of green feathers in it.
As soon as the Baron had alighted on the ground, he hastened up to Herr
Dapsul von Zabelthau, took hold of both his hands, swung himself up to
his neck, and cried out, in a voice wonderfully more powerful than his
shortness of stature would have led one to expect, "Oh, my Dapsul von
Zabelthau, my most beloved father!" He then lowered himself down from
Herr Dapsul's neck with the same deftness of skill with which he
had climbed up to it, sprang, or rather slung himself, to Fräulein
Aennchen, took that hand of hers which had the ring on it, covered
it with loud resounding kisses, and cried out in the same almost
thundering voice as before, "Oh, my loveliest Fräulein Anna von
Zabelthau, my most beloved bride-elect!"
He then clapped his hands, and immediately that noisy clattering
child-like band struck up, and over a hundred little fellows, who
had got off their horses and out of the carriages, danced as the
avant-courier had done, sometimes on their heads, sometimes on their
feet, in the prettiest possible trochees, spondees, iambics, pyrrhics,
anapaests, tribrachs, bacchi, antibacchi, choriambs, and dactyls, so
that it was a joy to behold them. But as this was going on, Fräulein
Aennchen recovered from the terrible fright which the little Baron's
speech to her had put her in, and entered into several important and
necessary economic questions and considerations. "How is it possible,"
she asked herself, "that these little beings can find room in this
place of ours? Would it hold even their servants if they were to be put
to sleep in the big barn? Then what could I do with the swell folk who
came in the coaches, and of course expect to be put into fine bedrooms,
with soft beds, as they're accustomed to be? And even if the two plough
horses were to go out of the stable, and I were to be so hard hearted
as to turn the old lame chestnut out into the grass field, would there
be anything like room enough for all those little beasts of horses that
this nasty ugly Baron has brought? And just the same with the one and
forty coaches. But the worst of all comes after that. Oh, my gracious!
is the whole year's provender anything like enough to keep all these
little creatures going for even so much as a couple of days?" This last
was the climax of all. She saw in her mind's eye everything eaten
up--all the new vegetables, the sheep, the poultry, the salt meat--nay,
the very beetroot brandy gone. And this brought the salt tears to her
eyes. She thought she caught the Baron making a sort of wicked impudent
face at her, and that gave her courage to say to him (while his people
were keeping up their dancing with might and main), in the plainest
language possible, that however flattering his visit might be to her
father, it was impossible to think of such a thing as its lasting more
than a couple of hours or so, as there was neither room nor anything
else for the proper reception and entertainment of such a grand
gentleman and such a numerous retinue. But little Cordovanspitz
immediately looked as marvellously sweet and tender as any marsipan
tart, pressing with closed eyes Fräulein Aennchen's hand (which was
rather rough, and not particularly white) to his lips, as he assured
her that the last thing he should think of was causing the dear papa
and his lovely daughter the slightest inconvenience. He said he had
brought everything in the kitchen and cellar department with him, and
as for the lodging, he needed nothing but a little bit of ground with
the open air above it, where his people could put up his ordinary
travelling palace, which would accommodate him, his whole retinue, and
the animals pertaining to them.
Fräulein Aennchen was so delighted with these words of the Baron
Porphyrio von Ockerodastes that, to show that she wasn't grudging a
little bit of hospitality, she was going to offer him the little
fritter cakes she had made for the last consecration day, and a small
glass of the beetroot brandy, unless he would have preferred double
bitters, which the maid had brought from the town and recommended as
strengthening to the stomach. But at this moment Cordovanspitz
announced that he had chosen the kitchen garden as the site of his
palace, and Aennchen's happiness was gone. But whilst the Baron's
retainers, in celebration of their lord's arrival at Dapsulheim,
continued their Olympian games, sometimes butting with their big heads
at each other's stomachs, knocking each other over backwards, sometimes
springing up in the air again, playing at skittles, being themselves in
turn skittles, balls, and players, and so forth, Baron Porphyrio von
Ockerodastes got into a very deep and interesting conversation with
Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau, which seemed to go on increasing in
importance till they went away together hand in hand, and up into the
astronomical tower.
Full of alarm and anxiety, Fräulein Aennchen now made haste to her
kitchen garden, with the view of trying to save whatever it might still
be possible to save. The maid-servant was there already, standing
staring before her with open mouth, motionless as a person turned like
Lot's wife into a pillar of salt. Aennchen at once fell into the same
condition beside her. At last they both cried out, making the welkin
ring, "Oh, Herr Gemini! What a terrible sort of thing!" For the whole
beautiful vegetable garden was turned into a wilderness. Not the trace
of a plant in it, it looked like a devastated country.
"No," cried the maid, "there's no other way of accounting for it, these
cursed little creatures have done it. Coming here in their coaches,
forsooth! coaches, quotha! as if they were people of quality! Ha! ha! A
lot of kobolds, that's what _they_ are, trust _me_ for that, Miss. And
if I had a drop of holy water here I'd soon show you what all those
fine things of theirs would turn to. But if they come here, the little
brutes, I'll bash the heads of them with this spade here." And she
flourished this threatening spade over her head, whilst Anna wept
aloud.
But at this point, four members of Cordovanspitz's suite came up with
such very pleasant ingratiating speeches and such courteous reverences,
being such wonderful creatures to behold, at the same time that the
maid, instead of attacking them with the spade, let it slowly sink, and
Fräulein Aennchen ceased weeping.
They announced themselves as being the four friends who were the most
immediately attached to their lord's person, saying that they belonged
to four different nationalities (as their dress indicated,
symbolically, at all events), and that their names were, respectively,
Pan Kapustowicz, from Poland; Herr von Schwartzrettig, from Pomerania;
Signor di Broccoli, from Italy; and Monsieur de Rocambolle, from
France. They said, moreover, that the builders would come directly, and
afford the beautiful lady the gratification of seeing them erect a
lovely palace, all of silk, in the shortest possible space of time.
"What good will the silken palace be to me?" cried Fräulein Aennchen,
weeping aloud in her bitter sorrow. "And what do I care about your
Baron Cordovanspitz, now that you have gone and destroyed my beautiful
vegetables, wretched creatures that you are. All my happy days are
over."
But the polite interlocutors comforted her, and assured her that they
had not by any means had the blame of desolating the kitchen-garden,
and that, moreover, it would very soon be growing green and flourishing
in such luxuriance as she had never seen, or anybody else in the world
for that matter.
The little building-people arrived, and then there began such a
confused-looking, higgledy-piggledy, and helter-skeltering on the plot
of ground that Fräulein Anna and the maid ran away quite frightened,
and took shelter behind some thickets, whence they could see what would
be the end of it all.
But though they couldn't explain to themselves how things perfectly
canny _could_ come about as they did, there certainly arose and formed
itself before their eyes, and in a few minutes' time, a lofty and
magnificent marquee, made of a golden-yellow material and ornamented
with many-coloured garlands and plumes, occupying the whole extent of
the vegetable garden, so that the cords of it went right away over the
village and into the wood beyond, where they were made fast to sturdy
trees.
As soon as this marquee was ready, Baron Porphyrio came down with Herr
Dapsul from the astronomical tower, after profuse embraces resumed his
seat in the coach and eight, and in the same order in which they had
made their entry into Dapsulheim, he and his following went into the
silken palace, which, when the last of the procession was within it,
instantly closed itself up.
Fräulein Aennchen had never seen her papa as he was then. The very
faintest trace of the melancholy which had hitherto always so
distressed him had completely disappeared from his countenance. One
would really almost have said he smiled. There was a sublimity about
his facial expression such as sometimes indicates that some great and
unexpected happiness has come upon a person. He led his daughter by the
hand in silence into the house, embraced her three times consecutively,
and then broke out--
"Fortunate Anna! Thrice happy girl! Fortunate father! Oh, daughter, all
sorrow and melancholy, all solicitude and misgiving are over for ever!
Yours is a fate such as falls to the lot of few mortals. This Baron
Porphyrio von Ockerodastes, otherwise known as Cordovanspitz, is by no
means a hostile gnome, although he is descended from one of those
elementary spirits who, however, was so fortunate as to purify his
nature by the teaching of Oromasis the Salamander. The love of this
being was bestowed upon a daughter of the human race, with whom he
formed a union, and became founder of the most illustrious family whose
name ever adorned a parchment. I have an impression that I told you
before, beloved daughter Anna, that the pupil of the great Salamander
Oromasis, the noble gnome Tsilmenech (a Chaldean name, which
interpreted into our language has a somewhat similar significance to
our word 'Thickhead'), bestowed his affection on the celebrated
Magdalena de la Croix, abbess of a convent at Cordova in Spain, and
lived in happy wedlock with her for nearly thirty years. And a
descendant of the sublime family of higher intelligences which sprung
from this union is our dear Baron Porphyrio von Ockerodastes, who has
adopted the sobriquet of Cordovanspitz to indicate his ancestral
connection with Cordova in Spain, and to distinguish himself by it from
a more haughty but less worthy collateral line of the family, which
bears the title of 'Saffian.' That a 'spitz' has been added to the
'Cordovan' doubtless possesses its own elementary astrological causes;
I have not as yet gone into that subject. Following the example of his
illustrious ancestor the gnome Tsilmenech, this splendid Ockerodastes
of ours fell in love with you when you were only twelve years of age
(Tsilmenech had done precisely the same thing in the case of Magdalena
de la Croix). He was fortunate enough at that time to get a small gold
ring from you, and now you wear his, so that your betrothal is
indissoluble."
"What?" cried Fräulein Aennchen, in fear and amazement. "What? I
betrothed to _him_--I to marry that horrible little kobold? Haven't I
been engaged for ever so long to Herr Amandus von Nebelstern? No, never
will I have that hideous monster of a wizard for a husband. I don't
care whether he comes from Cordova or from Saffian."
"There," said Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau more gravely, "there I
perceive, to my sorrow and distress, how impossible it is for celestial
wisdom to penetrate into your hardened, obdurate, earthly sense. You
stigmatize this noble, elementary, Porphyrio von Ockerodastes as
'horrible' and 'ugly,' probably, I presume, because he is only three
feet high, and, with the exception of his head, has very little worth
speaking of on his body in the shape of arms, legs, and other
appurtenances; and a foolish, earthly goose, such as you probably think
of as to be admired, can't have legs long enough, on account of coat
tails. Oh, my daughter, in what a terrible misapprehension you are
involved! All beauty lies in wisdom, in the thought; and the physical
symbol of thought is the head. The more head, the more beauty and
wisdom. And if mankind could but cast away all the other members of the
body as pernicious articles of luxury tending to evil, they would
reach the condition of a perfect ideal of the highest type. Whence
come all trouble and difficulty, vexation and annoyance, strife and
contention--in short, all the depravities and miseries of humanity, but
from the accursed luxury and voluptuousness of the members? Oh, what
joy, what peace, what blessedness there would be on earth if the
human race could exist without arms or legs, or the nether parts of
the body--in short, if we were nothing but busts! Therefore it is a
happy idea of the sculptors when they represent great statesmen,
or celebrated men of science and learning as busts, symbolically
indicating the higher nature within them. Wherefore, my daughter Anna,
no more of such words as 'ugly and abominable' applied to the noblest
of spirits, the grand Porphyrio von Ockerodastes, whose bride elect you
most indubitably are. I must just tell you, at the same time, that by
his important aid your father will soon attain that highest step of
bliss towards which he has so long been striving. Porphyrio von
Ockerodastes is in possession of authentic information that I am
beloved by the sylphide Nehabilah (which in Syriac has very much the
signification of our expression 'Peaky nose'), and he has promised to
assist me to the utmost of his power to render myself worthy of a union
with this higher spiritual nature. I have no doubt whatever, my dear
child, that you will be well satisfied with your future stepmother. All
I hope is, that a favourable destiny may so order matters that our
marriages may both take place at one and the same fortunate hour."
Having thus spoken, Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau, casting a significant
glance at his daughter, very pathetically left the room.
It was a great weight on Aennchen's heart that she remembered having, a
great while ago, really in some unaccountable way lost a little gold
ring, such as a child might wear, from her finger. So that it really
seemed too certain that this abominable little wizard of a creature had
indeed got her immeshed in his net, so that she couldn't see how she
was ever to get out of it. And over this she fell into the utmost grief
and bewilderment. She felt that her oppressed heart must obtain relief;
and this took place through the medium of a goose-quill, which she
seized, and at once wrote off to Herr Amandus von Nebelstern as
follows:
"MY DEAREST AMANDUS--
"All is over with me completely. I am the most unfortunate creature in
the whole world, and I'm sobbing and crying for sheer misery so
terribly that the dear dumb animals themselves are sorry for me. And
_you'll_ be still sorrier than they are, because it's just as great a
misfortune for you as it is for me, and you can't help being quite as
much distressed about it as I am myself. You know that we love one
another as fondly as any two lovers possibly can, and that I am
betrothed to you, and that papa was going with us to the church. Very
well. All of a sudden a nasty little creature comes here in a coach and
eight, with a lot of people and servants, and says I have changed rings
with him, and that he and I are engaged. And--just fancy how awful!
papa says as well, that I must marry this little wretch, because he
belongs to a very grand family. I suppose be very likely does, judging
by his following and the splendid dresses they have on. But the
creature has such a horrible name that, for that alone if it were for
nothing else, I never would marry him. I can't even pronounce the
heathenish words of the name; but one of them is Cordovanspitz,
and it seems that is the family name. Write and tell me if these
Cordovanspitzes really _are_ so very great and aristocratic a
family--people in the town will be sure to know if they are. And the
things papa takes in his head at his time of life I really can't
understand; but he wants to marry again, and this nasty Cordovanspitz
is going to get him a wife that flies in the air. God protect us! Our
servant girl is looking over my shoulder, and says she hasn't much of
an opinion of ladies who can fly in the air and swim in the water, and
that she'll have to be looking out for another situation, and hopes,
for my sake, that my stepmother may break her neck the first time she
goes riding through the air to St. Walpurgis. Nice state of things,
isn't it? But all my hope is in _you_. For I know you are the person
who ought to be, and has got to be, just where and what you are, and
has to deliver me from a great danger. The danger has come, so be
quick, and rescue
"Your grieved to death, but most true and loving _fiancée_,
"ANNA VON ZABELTHAU.
"P.S.--Couldn't you call this yellow little Cordovanspitz out? I'm sure
you could settle his hash. He's feeble on his legs.
"What I implore you to do is to put on your things as fast as you can
and hasten to
"Your most unfortunate and miserable,
"But always most faithful _fiancée_.
"ANNA VON ZABELTHAU."
CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH THE HOUSEHOLD STATE OF A GREAT KING IS DESCRIBED; AND
AFTERWARDS A BLOODY DUEL AND OTHER REMARKABLE OCCURRENCES ARE
TREATED OF.
Fräulein Aennchen was so miserable and distressed that she felt
paralyzed in all her members. She was sitting at the window with folded
arms gazing straight before her, heedless of the cackling, crowing, and
queaking of the fowls, which couldn't understand why on earth she
didn't come and drive them into their roosts as usual, seeing that
the twilight was coming on fast. Nay, she sat there with perfect
indifference and allowed the maid to carry out this duty, and to hit
the big cock (who opposed himself to the state of things and evinced
decided resistance to her authority) a good sharp whang with her whip.
For the love-pain which was rending her own heart was making her
indifferent to the troubles of the dear pupils of her happier
hours--those which she devoted to their up-bringing, although she had
never studied Chesterfield or Knigge, or consulted Madame de Genlis, or
any of those other authorities on the mental culture of the young, who
know to a hair's-breadth exactly how they ought to be moulded. In this
respect she really had laid herself open to censure on the score of
lack of due seriousness.
All that day Cordovanspitz had not shown himself, but had been shut up
in the tower with Herr Dapsul, no doubt assisting in the carrying on of
important operations. But now Fräulein Aennchen caught sight of the
little creature coming tottering across the courtyard in the glowing
light of the setting sun. And it struck her that he looked more hideous
in that yellow habit of his than he had ever done before. The
ridiculous manner in which he went wavering about, jumping here and
there, seeming to topple over every minute and then pick himself up
again (at which anybody else would have died of laughing), only caused
her the bitterer distress. Indeed, she at last held her hands in front
of her eyes, that she mightn't so much as see the little horrid
creature at all. Suddenly she felt something tugging at her dress, and
cried "Down, Feldmann!" thinking it was the Dachshund. But it was not
the dog; and what Fräulein Aennchen saw when she took her hands from
her eyes was the Herr Baron Porphyrio von Ockerodastes, who hoisted
himself into her lap with extraordinary deftness, and clasped both his
arms about her. She screamed aloud with fear and disgust, and started
up from her chair. But Cordovanspitz kept clinging on to her neck, and
instantly became so wonderfully heavy that he seemed to weigh a ton at
least, and he dragged the unfortunate Aennchen back again into her
chair. Having got her there, however, he slid down out of her lap, sank
on one knee as gracefully as possible, and as prettily as his weakness
in the direction of equilibrium permitted, and said, in a clear
voice--rather peculiar, but by no means unpleasing: "Adored Anna von
Zabelthau, most glorious of ladies, most choice of brides-elect; no
anger, I implore, no anger, no anger. I know you think my people laid
waste your beautiful vegetable garden to put up my palace. Oh, powers
of the universe, if you could but look into this little body of mine
which throbs with magnanimity and love; if you could but detect all the
cardinal virtues which are collected in my breast, under this yellow
Atlas habit. Oh, how guiltless am I of the shameful cruelty which you
attribute to me! How could a beneficent prince treat in such a way his
very own subjects. But hold--hold! What are words, phrases? You must
see with your own eyes, my betrothed, the splendours which attend you.
You must come with me at once. I will lead you to my palace, where a
joyful people await the arrival of her who is beloved by their lord."
It may be imagined how terrified Fräulein Aennchen was at this
proposition of Cordovanspitz's, and how hard she tried to avoid going
so much as a single step with the little monster. But he continued to
describe the extraordinary beauty and the marvellous richness of the
vegetable garden which was his palace, in such eloquent and persuasive
language, that at last she thought she would just have a peep into the
marquee, as that couldn't do her much harm. The little creature, in his
joy and delight, turned at least twelve Catherine wheels in succession,
and then took her hand with much courtesy, and led her through the
garden to the silken palace.
With a loud "Ah!" Fräulein Aennchen stood riveted to the ground with
delight when the curtains of the entrance drew apart, displaying a
vegetable garden stretching away further than the eye could reach, of
such marvellous beauty and luxuriance as was never seen in the
loveliest dreams. Here there was growing and flourishing every thing in
the nature of colewort, rape, lettuce, pease and beans, in such a
shimmer of light, and in such luxuriance that it is impossible to
describe it. A band of pipes, drums and cymbals sounded louder, and the
four gentlemen whose acquaintance she had previously made, viz. Herr
von Schwartzrettig, Monsieur de Rocambolle, Signor di Broccoli and Pan
Kapustowicz, approached with many ceremonious reverences.
"My chamberlains," said Porphyrio von Ockerodastes, smiling; and,
preceded by them, he conducted Fräulein Aennchen through between the
double ranks of the bodyguard of Red English Carrots to the centre of
the plain, where stood a splendid throne. And around this throne were
assembled the grandees of the realm; the Lettuce Princes with the Bean
Princesses, the Dukes of Cucumber with the Prince of Melon at their
head, the Cabbage Minister, the General Officer of Onions and Carrots,
the Colewort ladies, etc., etc., all in the gala dresses of their rank
and station. And amidst them moved up and down well on to a hundred of
the prettiest and most delightful Lavender and Fennel pages, diffusing
sweet perfume. When Ockerodastes had ascended the throne with Fräulein
Aennchen, Chief Court-Marshal Turnip waved his long wand of office, and
immediately the band stopped playing, and the multitude listened in
reverential silence as Ockerodastes raised his voice and said, in
solemn accents, "My faithful and beloved subjects, you see by my side
the noble Fräulein Anna von Zabelthau, whom I have chosen to be my
consort. Rich in beauty and virtues, she has long watched over you with
the eye of maternal affection, preparing soft and succulent beds for
you, caring for you and tending you with ceaseless ardour. She will
ever be a true and befitting mother of this realm. Wherefore I call
upon you to evince and give expression to the dutiful approval, and the
duly regulated rejoicing at the favour and benefit which I am about to
graciously confer upon you."
At a signal given by Chief Court-Marshal Turnip there arose the shout
of a thousand voices, the Bulb Artillery fired their pieces, and the
band of the Carrot Guard played the celebrated National Anthem--
"Salad and lettuce, and parsley so green."
It was a grand, a sublime moment, which drew tears from the eyes of the
grandees, particularly from those of the Colewort ladies. Fräulein
Aennchen, too, nearly lost all her self-control when she noticed that
little Ockerodastes had a crown on his head all sparkling with
diamonds, and a golden sceptre in his hand.
"Ah!" she cried clapping her hands. "Oh, Gemini! You seem to be
something much grander than we thought, my dear Herr von
Cordovanspitz."
"My adored Anna," he replied, "the stars compelled me to appear before
your father under an assumed name. You must be told, dearest girl, that
I am one of the mightiest of kings, and rule over a realm whose
boundaries are not discoverable, as it has been omitted to lay them
down in the maps. Oh, sweetest Anna, he who offers you his hand and
crown is Daucus Carota the First, King of the Vegetables. All the
vegetable princes are my vassals, save that the King of the Beans
reigns for one single day in every year, in conformity to an ancient
usage."
"Then I am to be a queen, am I?" cried Fräulein Aennchen, overjoyed.
"And all this great splendid vegetable garden is to be mine?"
King Daucus assured her that of course it was to be so, and added that
he and she would jointly rule over all the vegetables in the world. She
had never dreamt of anything of the kind, and thought little
Cordovanspitz wasn't anything like so nasty-looking as he used to be
now that he was transformed into King Daucus Carota the First, and that
the crown and sceptre were very becoming to him, and the kingly mantle
as well. When she reckoned into the bargain his delightful manners, and
the property this marriage would bring her, she felt certain that there
wasn't a country lady in all the world who could have made a better
match than she, who found herself betrothed to a king before she knew
where she was. So she was delighted beyond measure, and asked her royal
_fiancé_ whether she could not take up her abode in the palace then and
there, and be married next day. But King Daucus answered that eagerly
as he longed for the time when he might call her his own, certain
constellations compelled him to postpone that happiness a little
longer. And that Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau, moreover, must be kept in
ignorance of his son-in-law's royal station, because otherwise the
operations necessary for bringing about the desired union with the
sylphide Nehabilah might be unsuccessful. Besides, he said, he had
promised that both the weddings should take place on the same day. So
Fräulein Aennchen had to take a solemn vow not to mention one syllable
to Herr Dapsul of what had been happening to her. She therefore left
the silken palace amid long and loud rejoicings of the people, who were
in raptures with her beauty as well as with her affability and gracious
condescension of manners and behaviour.
In her dreams she once more beheld the realms of the charming King
Daucus, and was lapped in Elysium.
The letter which she had sent to Herr Amandus von Nebelstern made a
frightful impression on him. Ere long, Fräulein Aennchen received the
following answer--
'IDOL OF MY HEART, HEAVENLY ANNA,--
"Daggers--sharp, glowing, poisoned, death-dealing daggers were to me
the words of your letter, which pierced my breast through and through.
Oh, Anna! _you_ to be torn from me. What a thought! I cannot, even now,
understand how it was that I did not go mad on the spot and commit some
terrible deed. But I fled the face of man, overpowered with rage at my
deadly destiny, after dinner--without the game of billiards which I
generally play--out into the woods, where I wrung my hands, and called
on your name a thousand times. It came on a tremendously heavy rain,
and I had on a new cap, red velvet, with a splendid gold tassel
(everybody says I never had anything so becoming). The rain was
spoiling it, and it was brand-new. But what are caps, what are velvet
and gold, to a despairing lover? I strode up and down till I was wet to
the skin and chilled to the bone, and had a terrible pain in my
stomach. This drove me into a restaurant near, where I got them to make
me some excellent mulled wine, and had a pipe of your heavenly Virginia
tobacco. I soon felt myself elevated on the wings of a celestial
inspiration, took out my pocket-book, and, oh!--wondrous gift of
poetry--the love-despair and the stomach-ache both disappeared at once.
I shall content myself with writing out for you only the last of these
poems; it will inspire you with heavenly hope, as it did myself.
"Wrapped in darkest sorrow--
In my heart, extinguished,
No love-tapers burning--
Joy hath no to-morrow.
"Ha! the Muse approaches,
Words and rhymes inspiring,
Little verse inscribing,
Joy returns apace.
"New love-tapers blazing,
All the heart inspiring,
Fare thee well, my sorrow,
Joy thy place doth borrow.
"Ay, my sweet Anna, soon shall I, thy champion, hasten to rescue you
from the miscreant who would carry you off from me. So, once more take
comfort, sweetest maid. Bear me ever in thy heart. He comes; he rescues
you; he clasps you to his bosom, which heaves in tumultuous emotion.
"Your ever faithful
"AMANDUS VON NEBELSTERN.
"P.S.--It would be quite impossible for me to call Herr von
Cordovanspitz out. For, oh Anna! every drop of blood drawn from your
Amandus by the weapon of a presumptuous adversary were glorious poet's
blood--ichor of the gods--which never ought to be shed. The world very
properly claims that such a spirit as mine has it imposed upon it as
public duty to take care of itself for the world's benefit, and
preserve itself by every possible means. The sword of the poet is the
word--the song. I will attack my rival with Tyrtæan battle-songs;
strike him to earth with sharp-pointed epigrams; hew him down with
dithyrambics full of lover's fury. Such are the weapons of a true,
genuine poet, powerful to shield him from every danger. And it is so
accoutred that I shall appear, and do battle--victorious battle--for
your hand, oh, Anna!
"Farewell. I press you once more to my heart. Hope all things from my
love, and, especially, from my heroic courage, which will shun no
danger to set you free from the shameful nets of captivity in which, to
all appearance, you are entangled by a demoniacal monster."
Fräulein Aennchen received this letter at a time when she was playing a
game at "Catch-me-if-you-can" with her royal bridegroom elect, King
Daucus Carota the First, in the meadow at the back of the garden, and
immensely enjoying it when, as was often the case, she suddenly ducked
down in full career, and the little king would go shooting right away
over her head. Instead of reading the letter immediately (which she had
always done before), she put it in her pocket unopened, and we shall
presently see that it came too late.
Herr Dapsul could not make out at all how Fräulein Aennchen had changed
her mind so suddenly, and grown quite fond of Herr Porphyrio von
Ockerodastes, whom she had so cordially detested before. He consulted
the stars on the subject, but as they gave him no satisfactory
information, he was obliged to come to the conclusion that human hearts
are more mysterious and inscrutable than all the secrets of the
universe, and not to be thrown light upon by any constellation. He
could not think that what had produced love for the little creature in
Anna's heart was merely the highness of his nature; and personal beauty
he had none. If (as the reader knows) the canon of beauty, as laid down
by Herr Dapsul, is very unlike the ideas which young ladies form upon
that subject, he did, after all, possess sufficient knowledge of the
world to know that, although the said young women hold that good sense,
wit, cleverness and pleasant manners are very agreeable fellow-lodgers
in a comfortable house, still, a man who can't call himself the
possessor of a properly-made, fashionable coat--were he a Shakespeare,
a Goethe, a Tieck, or a Jean Paul Richter--would run a decided risk of
being beaten out of the field by any sufficiently well put-together
lieutenant of hussars in uniform, if he took it in his head to pay his
addresses to one of them. Now in Fräulein Aennchen's case it was a
different matter altogether. It was neither good looks nor cleverness
that were in question; but it is not exactly every day that a poor
country lady becomes a queen all in a moment, and accordingly it was
not very likely that Herr Dapsul should hit upon the cause which had
been operating, particularly as the very stars had left him in the
lurch.
As may be supposed, those three, Herr Porphyrio, Herr Dapsul and
Fräulein Aennchen, were one heart and one soul. This went so far that
Herr Dapsul left his tower oftener than he had ever been known to do
before, to chat with his much-prized son-in-law on all sorts of
agreeable subjects; and not only this, but he now regularly took his
breakfast in the house. About this hour, too, Herr Porphyrio was wont
to come forth from his silken palace, and eat a good share of Fräulein
Aennchen's bread and butter.
"Ah, ah!" she would often whisper softly in his ear, "if papa only knew
that you are a real king, dearest Cordovanspitz!"
"Be still, oh heart! Melt not away in rapture," Daucus Carota the First
would say. "Near, near is the joyful day!"
It chanced that the schoolmaster had sent Fräulein Aennchen a present
of some of the finest radishes from his garden. She was particularly
pleased at this, as Herr Dapsul was very fond of radishes, and she
could not get anything from the vegetable garden because it was covered
by the silk marquee. Besides this, it now occurred to her for the first
time that, among all the roots and vegetables she had seen in the
palace, radishes were conspicuous by their absence.
So she speedily cleaned them and served them up for her father's
breakfast. He had ruthlessly shorn several of them of their leafy
crowns, dipped them in salt, and eaten them with much relish, when
Cordovanspitz came in.
"Oh, my Ockerodastes," Herr Dapsul called to him, "are you fond of
radishes?"
There was still a particularly fine and beautiful radish on the dish.
But the moment Cordovanspitz saw it his eves gleamed with fury, and he
cried in a resonant voice--
"What, unworthy duke, do you dare to appear in my presence again, and
to force your way, with the coolest of audacity, into a house which is
under my protection? Have I not pronounced sentence of perpetual
banishment upon you as a pretender to the imperial throne? Away,
treasonous vassal; begone from my sight for ever!"
Two little legs had suddenly shot out beneath the radish's large head,
and with them he made a spring out of the plate, placed himself close
in front of Cordovanspitz, and addressed him as follows--
"Fierce and tyrannical Daucus Carota the First, you have striven in
vain to exterminate my race. Had ever any of your family a head as
large as mine, or that of my king? We are all gifted with talent,
common-sense, wisdom, sharpness, cultivated manners: and whilst _you_
loaf about in kitchens and stables, and are of no use as soon as your
early youth is gone (so that in very truth it is nothing but the
_diable de la jeunesse_ that bestows upon you your brief, transitory,
little bit of good fortune), _we_ enjoy the friendship of, and the
intercourse with, people of position, and are greeted with acclamation
as soon as ever we lift up our green heads. But I despise you, Daucus
Carota. You're nothing but a low, uncultivated, ignorant Boor, like all
the lot of you. Let's see which of us two is the better man."
With this the Duke of Radish, flourishing a long whip about his head,
proceeded, without more ado, to attack the person of King Daucus Carota
the First. The latter quickly drew his little sword, and defended
himself in the bravest manner. The two little creatures darted about in
the room, fighting fiercely, and executing the most wonderful leaps and
bounds, till Daucus Carota pressed the Duke of Radish so hard that the
latter found himself obliged to make a tremendous jump out of the
window and take to the open. But Daucus Carota--with whose remarkable
agility and dexterity the reader is already acquainted--bounded out
after him, and followed the Duke of Radish across country.
Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau had looked on at this terrible encounter
rigid and speechless, but he now broke forth into loud and bitter
lamentation, crying, "Oh, daughter Anna! oh, my poor unfortunate
daughter Anna! Lost--I--you--both of us. All is over with us." With
which he left the room, and ascended the astronomical tower as fast as
his legs would carry him.
Fräulein Aennchen couldn't understand a bit, or form the very slightest
idea what in all the world had set her father into all this boundless
misery all of a sudden. The whole thing had caused her the greatest
pleasure; moreover, her heart was rejoiced that she had had an
opportunity of seeing that her future husband was brave, as well as
rich and great; for it would be difficult to find any woman in all the
world capable of loving a poltroon. And now that she had proof of the
bravery of King Daucus Carota the First, it struck her painfully, for
the first time, that Herr Amandus von Nebelstern had cried off from
fighting him. If she had for a moment hesitated about sacrificing Herr
Amandus to King Daucus, she was quite decided on the point now that she
had an opportunity of assuring herself of all the excellencies of her
future lord. She sat down and wrote the following letter:--
"MY DEAR AMANDUS,
"Everything in this world is liable to change. Everything passes away,
as the schoolmaster says, and he's quite right. I'm sure _you_, my dear
Amandus, are such a learned and wise student that you will agree with
the schoolmaster, and not be in the very least surprised that my heart
and mind have undergone the least little bit of a change. You may quite
believe me when I say that I still like you very well, and I can quite
imagine how nice you look in your red velvet cap with the gold tassel.
But, with regard to marriage, you know very well, Amandus dear, that,
clever as you are, and beautiful as are your verses, you will never, in
all your days, be a king, and (don't be frightened, dear) little Herr
von Cordovanspitz isn't Herr von Cordovanspitz at all, but a great
king, Daucus Carota the First, who reigns over the great vegetable
kingdom, and has chosen me to be his queen. Since my dear king has
thrown aside his incognito he has grown much nicer-looking, and I see
now that papa was quite right when he said that the head was the beauty
of the man, and therefore couldn't possibly be big enough. And then,
Daucus Carota the First (you see how well I remember the beautiful name
and how nicely I write it now that has got so familiar to me), I was
going to say that my little royal husband, that is to be, has such
charming and delightful manners that there's no describing them. And
what courage, what bravery there is in him! Before my eyes he put to
flight the Duke of Radish, (and a very disagreeable, unfriendly
creature _he_ appears to be) and hey, how he did jump after him out of
the window! You should just have seen him: I only wish you had! And I
don't really think that my Daucus Carota would care about those weapons
of yours that you speak about one bit. He seems pretty tough, and I
don't believe verses would do him any harm at all, however fine and
pointed they might be. So now, dear Amandus, you must just make up your
mind to be contented with your lot, like a good fellow, and not be
vexed with me that I am going to be a Queen instead of marrying you.
Never mind, I shall always be your affectionate friend, and if ever you
would like an appointment in the Carrot bodyguard, or (as you don't
care so much about fighting as about learning) in the Parsley Academy
or the Pumpkin Office, you have but to say the word and your fortune is
made. Farewell, and don't be vexed with
"Your former _fiancée_, but now friend and well-wisher, as well
as future Queen,
"ANNA VON ZABELTHAU.
"(but soon to be no more Von Zabelthau, but simply
ANNA.)
"P.S.--You shall always be kept well supplied with the very finest
Virginia tobacco, of that you need have no fear. As far as I can see
there won't be any smoking at my court, but I shall take care to have a
bed or two of Virginia tobacco planted not far from the throne, under
my own special care. This will further culture and morality, and my
little Daucus will no doubt have a statute specially enacted on the
subject."
CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH AN ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF A FRIGHTFUL CATASTROPHE, AND WE PROCEED
WITH THE FUTURE COURSE OF EVENTS.
Fräulein Aennchen had just finished her letter to Herr Amandus von
Nebelstern, when in came Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau and began, in the
bitterest grief and sorrow to say, "O, my daughter Anna, how shamefully
we are both deceived and betrayed! This miscreant who made me believe
he was Baron Porphyrio von Ockerodastes, known as Cordovanspitz, member
of a most illustrious family descended from the mighty gnome Tsilmenech
and the noble Abbess of Cordova--this miscreant, I say--learn it and
fall down insensible--_is_ indeed a gnome, but of that lowest of all
gnomish castes which has charge of the vegetables. The gnome Tsilmenech
was of the highest caste of all, that, namely, to which the care
of the diamonds is committed. Next comes the caste which has care
of the metals in the realms of the metal-king, and then follow the
flower-gnomes, who are lower in position, as depending on the sylphs.
But the lowest and most ignoble are the vegetable gnomes, and not only
is this deceiver Cordovanspitz a gnome of this caste, but he is actual
king of it, and his name is Daucus Carota."
Fräulein Aennchen was far from fainting away, neither was she in the
smallest degree frightened, but she smiled in the kindliest way at her
lamenting papa, and the Courteous reader is aware of the reason. But as
Herr Dapsul was very much surprised at this, and kept imploring her for
Heaven's sake to realize the terrible position in which she was, and to
feel the full horror of it, she thought herself at liberty to divulge
the secret entrusted to her. She told Herr Dapsul how the so-called
Baron von Cordovanspitz had told her his real position long ago, and
that since then she had found him altogether so pleasant and delightful
that she couldn't wish for a better husband. Moreover she described all
the marvellous beauties of the vegetable kingdom into which King Daucus
Carota the First had taken her, not forgetting to duly extol the
remarkably delightful manners of the inhabitants of that realm.
Herr Dapsul struck his hands together several times, and wept bitterly
over the deceiving wickedness of the Gnome-king, who had been, and
still was, employing means the most artful--most dangerous for himself
as well--to lure the unfortunate Anna down into his dark, demoniac
kingdom. "Glorious," he explained, "glorious and advantageous as may be
the union of an elementary spirit with a human being, grand as is the
example of this given by the wedlock of the gnome Tsilmenech with
Magdalena de la Croix (which is of course the reason why this deceiver
Daucus Carota has given himself out as being a descendant of that
union), yet the kings and princes of those races are very different. If
the Salamander kings are only irascible, the sylph kings proud and
haughty, the Undine queens affectionate and jealous, the gnome kings
are fierce, cruel, and deceitful. Merely to revenge themselves on the
children of earth, who deprive them of their vassals, they are
constantly trying their utmost to lure one of them away, who then
wholly lays aside her human nature, and, becoming as shapeless as the
gnomes themselves, has to go down into the earth, and is never more
seen."
Fräulein Aennchen didn't seem disposed to believe what her father was
telling her to her dear Daucus's discredit, but began talking again
about the marvels of the beautiful vegetable country over which she was
expecting so soon to reign as queen.
"Foolish, blinded child," cried Herr Dapsul, "do you not give your
father credit for possessing sufficient cabalistic science to be well
aware that what the abominable Daucus Carota made you suppose you saw
was all deception and falsehood? No, you don't believe me, and to save
you, my only child, I must convince you, and this conviction must be
arrived at by most desperate methods. Come with me."
For the second time she had to go up into the astronomical tower with
her papa. From a big band-box Herr Dapsul took a quantity of yellow,
red, white, and green ribbon, and, with strange ceremonies, he wrapped
Fräulein Aennchen up in it from head to foot. He did the same to
himself, and then they both went very carefully to the silken palace of
Daucus Carota the First. It was close shut, and by her papa's
directions, she had to rip a small opening in one of the seams of it
with a large pair of scissors, and then peep in at the opening.
Heaven be about us! what did she see? Instead of the beautiful
vegetable garden, the carrot guards, the plumed ladies, lavender pages,
lettuce princes, and so forth, she found herself looking down into a
deep pool which seemed to be full of a colourless, disgusting-looking
slime, in which all kinds of horrible creatures from the bowels of the
earth were creeping and twining about. There were fat worms slowly
writhing about amongst each other, and beetle-like creatures stretching
out their short legs and creeping heavily out. On their backs they bore
big onions; but these onions had ugly human faces, and kept fleering
and leering at each other with bleared yellow eyes, and trying, with
their little claws (which were close behind their ears), to catch hold
of one another by their long roman noses, and drag each other down into
the slime, while long, naked slugs were rolling about in crowds, with
repulsive torpidity, stretching their long horns out of their depths.
Fräulein Aennchen was nearly fainting away at this horrid sight. She
held both hands to her face, and ran away as hard as she could.
"You see now, do you not," said Herr Dapsul, "how this atrocious Daucus
Carota has been deceiving you in showing you splendours of brief
duration? He dressed his vassals up in gala dresses to delude you with
dazzling displays. But now you have seen the kingdom which you want to
reign over in undress uniform; and when you become the consort of
the frightful Daucus Carota you will have to live for ever in the
subterranean realms, and never appear on the surface any more. And
if--Oh, oh, what must I see, wretched, most miserable of fathers that I
am?"
He got into such a state all in a moment that she felt certain some
fresh misfortune had just come to light, and asked him anxiously
what he was lamenting about now. However, he could do nothing for
sheer sobbing, but stammer out, "Oh--oh--dau-gh-ter. Wha-t ar--e
y-ou--l--l--like?" She ran to her room, looked into the looking-glass,
and started back, terrified almost to death.
And she had reason; for the matter stood thus. As Herr Dapsul was
trying to open the eyes of Daucus Carota's intended queen to the danger
she was in of gradually losing her pretty figure and good looks, and
growing more and more into the semblance of a gnome queen, he suddenly
became aware of how far the process had proceeded already. Aennchen's
head had got much broader and bigger, and her skin had turned yellow,
so that she was quite ugly enough already. And though vanity was not
one of her failings, she was woman enough to know that to grow ugly is
the greatest and most frightful misfortune which can happen here below.
How often had she thought how delightful it would be when she would
drive, as queen, to church in the coach and eight, with the crown on
her head, in satins and velvets, with diamonds, and gold chains, and
rings, seated beside her royal husband, setting all the women, the
schoolmaster's wife included, into amazement of admiration, and most
likely, in fact, no doubt, instilling a proper sense of respect even
into the minds of the pompous lord and lady of the manor themselves.
Ay, indeed, how often had she been lapt in these and other such
eccentric dreams, and visions of the future!--Fräulein Aennchen burst
into long and bitter weeping.
"Anna, my daughter Anna," cried Herr Dapsul down through the speaking
trumpet; "come up here to me immediately!"
She found him dressed very much like a miner. He spoke in a tone of
decision and resolution, saying, "When need is the sorest, help is
often nearest. I have ascertained that Daucus Carota will not leave his
palace to-day, and most probably not till noon of to-morrow. He has
assembled the princes of his house, the ministers, and other people
of consequence to hold a council on the subject of the next crop of
winter cabbage. The sitting is important, and it may be prolonged so
much that we may not have any cabbage at all next winter. I mean to
take advantage of this opportunity, while he is so occupied with his
official affairs that he won't be able to attend to my proceedings, to
prepare a weapon with which I may perhaps attack this shameful gnome,
and prevail over him, so that he will be compelled to withdraw, and set
you at liberty. While I am at work, do you look uninterruptedly at the
palace through this glass, and tell me instantly if anybody comes out,
or even looks out of it." She did as she was directed, but the marquee
remained closed, although she often heard (notwithstanding that Herr
Dapsul was making a tremendous hammering on plates of metal a few paces
behind her), a wild, confused crying and screaming, apparently coming
from the marquee, and also distinct sounds of slapping, as if people's
ears were being well boxed. She told Herr Dapsul this, and he was
delighted, saying that the more they quarrelled in there the less they
were likely to know what was being prepared for their destruction.
Fräulein Aennchen was much surprised when she found that Herr Dapsul
had hammered out and made several most lovely kitchen-pots and
stew-pans of copper. As an expert in such matters, she observed that
the tinning of them was done in a most superior style, so that her papa
must have paid careful heed to the duties legally enjoined on
coppersmiths. She begged to be allowed to take these nice pots and pans
down to the kitchen, and use them there. But Herr Dapsul smiled a
mysterious smile, and merely said:
"All in good time, my daughter Anna. Just you go downstairs, my beloved
child, and wait quietly till you see what happens to-morrow."
He gave a melancholy smile, and that infused a little hope and
confidence into his luckless daughter.
Next day, as dinner-time came on, Herr Dapsul brought down his pots and
pans, and betook himself to the kitchen, telling his daughter and the
maid to go away and leave him by himself, as he was going to cook the
dinner. He particularly enjoined Fräulein Aennchen to be as kind and
pleasant with Cordovanspitz as ever she could, when he came in--as he
was pretty sure to do.
Cordovanspitz--or rather, King Daucus Carota the First--did come in
very soon, and if he had borne himself like an ardent lover on previous
occasions, he far outdid himself on this. Aennchen noticed, to her
terror, that she had grown so small by this time, that Daucus had no
difficulty in getting up into her lap to caress and kiss her; and the
wretched girl had to submit to this, notwithstanding her disgust with
the horrid little monster. Presently Herr Dapsul came in, and said--
"Oh, my most egregious Porphyrio von Ockerodastes, won't you come into
the kitchen with my daughter and me, and see what beautiful order your
future bride has got everything in there?"
Aennchen had never seen the wicked, malicious look upon her father's
face before, which it wore when he took little Daucus by the arm, and
almost forced him from the sitting-room to the kitchen. At a sign of
her father's she went there after them.
Her heart swelled within her when she saw the fire burning so merrily,
the glowing coals, the beautiful copper pots and pans. As Herr Dapsul
drew Cordovanspitz closer to the fire-place, the hissing and bubbling
in the pots grew louder and louder, and at last changed into whimpering
and groaning. And out of one of the pots came voices, crying, "Oh
Daucus Carota! Oh King, rescue your faithful vassals! Rescue us poor
carrots! Cut up, thrown into despicable water; rubbed over with salt
and butter to our torture, we suffer indescribable woe, whereof a
number of noble young parsleys are partakers with us!"
And out of the pans came the plaint: "Oh Daucus Carota! Oh King! Rescue
your faithful vassals--rescue us poor carrots. We are roasting in
hell--and they put so little water with us, that our direful thirst
forces us to drink our own heart's blood!"
And from another of the pots came: "Oh Daucus Carota! Oh King! Rescue
your faithful vassals--rescue us poor carrots. A horrible cook
eviscerated us, and stuffed our insides full of egg, cream, and butter,
so that all our ideas and other mental qualities are in utter
confusion, and we don't know ourselves what we are thinking about!"
And out of all the pots and pans came howling at once a general
chorus of "Oh Daucus Carota! Mighty King! Rescue us, thy faithful
vassals--rescue us poor carrots!"
On this, Cordovanspitz gave a loud, croaking cry of--"Cursed, infernal,
stupid humbug and nonsense!" sprang with his usual agility on to the
kitchen range, looked into one of the pots, and suddenly popped down
into it bodily. Herr Dapsul sprang in the act of putting on the cover,
with a triumphant cry of "a Prisoner!" But with the speed of a spiral
spring Cordovanspitz came bounding up out of the pot, and gave Herr
Dapsul two or three ringing slaps on the face, crying "Meddling goose
of an old Cabalist, you shall pay for this! Come out, my lads, one and
all!"
Then there came swarming out of all the pots and pans hundreds and
hundreds of little creatures about the length of one's finger, and they
attached themselves firmly all over Herr Dapsul's body, threw him down
backwards into an enormous dish, and there dished him up, pouring the
hot juice out of the pots and pans over him, and bestrewing him with
chopped egg, mace, and grated breadcrumbs. Having done this, Daucus
Carota darted out of the window, and his people after him.
Fräulein Aennchen sank down in terror beside the dish whereon her poor
papa lay, served up in this manner as if for table. She supposed he was
dead, as he gave not the faintest sign of life.
She began to lament: "Ah, poor papa--you're dead now, and there's
nobody to save me from this diabolical Daucus!" But Herr Dapsul opened
his eyes, sprang up from the dish with renewed energy, and cried in a
terrible voice, such as she had never heard him make use of before, "Ah
accursed Daucus Carota, I am not at the end of my resources yet. You
shall soon see what the meddling old goose of a Cabalist can do."
Aennchen had to set to work and clean him with the kitchen besom from
all the chopped egg, the mace, and the grated breadcrumbs; and then he
seized a copper pot, crammed it on his head by way of a helmet, took a
frying-pan in his left hand, and a long iron kitchen ladle in his
right, and thus armed and accoutred, he darted out into the open.
Fräulein Aennchen saw him running as hard as he could towards
Cordovanspitz's marquee, and yet never moving from the same spot. At
this her senses left her.
When she came to herself, Herr Dapsul had disappeared, and she got
terribly anxious when evening came, and night, and even the next
morning, without his making his appearance. She could not but dread the
very worst.
CHAPTER VI.
WHICH IS THE LAST--AND, AT THE SAME TIME, THE MOST EDIFYING OF ALL.
Fräulein Aennchen was sitting in her room in the deepest sorrow,
when the door opened, and who should come in but Herr Amandus von
Nebelstern. All shame and contrition, she shed a flood of tears, and in
the most weeping accents addressed him as follows: "Oh, my darling
Amandus, pray forgive what I wrote to you in my blinded state! I was
bewitched, and I am so still, no doubt. I am yellow, and I'm hideous,
may God pity me! But my heart is true to you, and I am not going to
marry any king at all."
"My dear girl," said Amandus, "I really don't see what you have to
complain of. I consider you one of the luckiest women in the world."
"Oh, don't mock at me," she cried. "I am punished severely enough for
my absurd vanity in wishing to be a Queen."
"Really and truly, my dear girl," said Amandus, "I can't make you
out one bit. To tell you the real truth, your last letter drove me
stark, staring mad. I first thrashed my servant-boy, then my poodle,
smashed several glasses--and you know a student who's breathing out
threatenings and slaughter in that sort of way isn't to be trifled
with. But when I got a little calmer I made up my mind to come on here
as quickly as I could, and see with my own eyes how, why, and to whom I
had lost my intended bride. Love makes no distinction of class or
station, and I made up my mind that I would make this King Daucus
Carota give a proper account of himself, and ask him if this tale about
his marrying you was mere brag, or if he really meant it--but
everything here is different to what I expected. As I was passing near
the grand marquee that is put up yonder, King Daucus Carota came out of
it, and I soon found that I had before me the most charming prince I
ever saw--at the same time he happens to be the first I ever did see;
but that's nothing. For, just fancy, my dear girl, he immediately
detected the sublime poet in me, praised my poems (which he has never
read) above measure, and offered to appoint me Poet Laureate in his
service. Now a position of that sort has long been the fairest goal of
my warmest wishes, so that I accepted his offer with a thousandfold
delight. Oh, my dear girl, with what an enthusiasm of inspiration will
I chant your praises! A poet can love queens and princesses: or rather,
it is really a part of his simple duty to choose a person of that
exalted station to be the lady of his heart. And if he _does_ get
rather cracky in the head on the subject, that circumstance of itself
gives rise to that celestial delirium without which no poetry is
possible, and no one ought to feel any surprise at a poet's perhaps
somewhat extravagant proceedings. Remember the great Tasso, who must
have had a considerable bee in his bonnet when in love with the
Princess Leonore d'Este. Yes, my dear girl, as you are going to be a
queen so soon, you will always be the lady of my heart, and I will
extol you to the stars in the sublimest and most celestial verses."
"What, you have seen him, the wicked Cobold?" Fräulein Aennchen broke
out in the deepest amazement. "And he has----"
But at that moment in came the little gnomish King himself, and said,
in the tenderest accents, "Oh, my sweet, darling _fiancée_! Idol of my
heart! Do not suppose for a moment that I am in the least degree
annoyed with the little piece of rather unseemly conduct which Herr
Dapsul von Zabelthau was guilty of. Oh, no--and indeed it has led to
the more rapid fulfilment of my hopes; so that the solemn ceremony of
our marriage will actually be celebrated to-morrow. You will be pleased
to find that I have appointed Herr Amandus von Nebelstern our Poet
Laureate, and I should wish him at once to favour us with a specimen of
his talents, and recite one of his poems. But let us go out under the
trees, for I love the open air: and I will lie in your lap, while you,
my most beloved bride elect, may scratch my head a little while he is
singing--for I am fond of having my head scratched in such
circumstances."
Fräulein Aennschen, turned to stone with horror and alarm, made no
resistance to this proposal. Daucus Carota, out under the trees,
laid himself in her lap, she scratched his head, and Herr Amandus,
accompanying himself on the guitar, began the first of twelve dozen
songs which he had composed and written out in a thick book.
It is matter of regret that in the Chronicle of Dapsulheim (from which
all this history is taken), these songs have not been inserted, it
being merely stated that the country folk who were passing, stopped on
their way, and anxiously inquired who could be in such terrible pain in
Herr Dapsul's wood, that he was crying and screaming out in such a
style.
Daucus Carota, in Aennschen's lap, twisted and writhed, and groaned and
whined more and more lamentably, as if he had a violent pain in his
stomach. Moreover, Fräulein Aennchen fancied she observed, to her great
amazement, that Cordovanspitz was growing smaller and smaller as the
song went on. At last Herr Amandus sung the following sublime effusion
(which is preserved in the Chronicle):--
"Gladly sings the Bard, enraptured,
Breath of blossoms, bright dream-visions,
Moving thro' roseate spaces in Heaven,
Blessed and beautiful, whither away?
'Whither away?' oh, question of questions--
Towards that 'Whither,' the Bard is borne onward,
Caring for nought but to love, to believe.
Moving through roseate heavenly spaces,
Towards this 'Whither,' where'er it may be,
Singeth the bard, in a tumult of rapture,
Ever becoming a radiant em----"
At this point, Daucus Carota uttered a loud croaking cry, and, now
dwindled into a little, little carrot, slipped down from Aennchen's
lap, and into the ground, leaving no trace behind. Upon which, the
great grey fungus which had grown in the night time beside the grassy
bank, shot up and up; but this fungus was nothing less than Herr Dapsul
von Zabelthau's grey felt hat, and he himself was under it, and fell
stormily on Amandus's breast, crying out in the utmost ecstasy, "Oh, my
dearest, best, most beloved Herr Amandus von Nebelstern, with that
mighty song of conjuration you have beaten all my cabalistic science
out of the held? What the profoundest magical art, the utmost daring of
the philosopher fighting for his very existence, could not accomplish,
your verses achieved, passing into the frame of the deceitful Daucus
Carota like the deadliest poison, so that he must have perished of
stomach-ache, in spite of his gnomish nature, if he had not made off
into his kingdom. My daughter Anna is delivered--I am delivered from
the horrible charm which held me spellbound here in the shape of a
nasty fungus, at the risk of being hewn to pieces by my own daughter's
hands; for the good soul hacks them all down with her spade, unless
their edible character is unmistakable, as in the case of the
mushrooms. Thanks, my most heartfelt thanks, and I have no doubt your
intentions as regards my daughter have undergone no change. I am sorry
to say she has lost her good looks, through the machinations of that
inimical gnome; but you are too much of a philosopher to----"
"Oh, dearest papa," cried Aennchen, overjoyed; "just look there! The
silken palace is gone! The abominable monster is off and away with all
his tribe of salad-princes, cucumber-ministers, and Lord knows what
all!" And she ran away to the vegetable garden, delighted, Herr Dapsul
following as fast as he could. Herr Amandus went behind them, muttering
to himself, "I'm sure I don't know quite what to make of all this. But
this I maintain, that that ugly little carrot creature is a vile,
prosaic lubber, and none of your poetical kings, or my sublime lay
wouldn't have given him the stomach-ache, and sent him scuttling into
the ground."
As Fräulein Aennchen was standing in the vegetable garden, where there
wasn't the trace of a green blade to be seen, she suddenly felt a sharp
pain in the finger which had on the fateful ring. At the same time a
cry of piercing sorrow sounded from the ground, and the tip of a carrot
peeped out. Guided by her inspiration she quickly took the ring off (it
came quite easily this time), stuck it on to the carrot, and the latter
disappeared, while the cry of sorrow ceased. But, oh, wonder of
wonders! all at once Fräulein Aennchen was as pretty as ever,
well-proportioned, and as fair and white as a country lady can be
expected to be. She and her father rejoiced greatly, while Amandus
stood puzzled, and not knowing what to make of it all.
Fräulein Aennchen took the spade from the maid, who had come running
up, and flourished it in the air with a joyful shout of "Now let's set
to work," in doing which she was unfortunate enough to deal Herr
Amandus such a thwack on the head with it (just at the place where the
Sensorium Commune is supposed to be situated) that he fell down as one
dead.
Aennchen threw the murderous weapon far from her, cast herself
down beside her beloved, and broke out into the most despairing
lamentations, whilst the maid poured the contents of a watering pot
over him, and Herr Dapsul quickly ascended the astronomic tower to
consult the stars with as little delay as possible as to whether Herr
Amandus was dead or not. But it was not long before the latter opened
his eyes again, jumped to his legs, clasped Fräulein Aennchen in his
arms, and cried, with all the rapture of affection, "Now, my best and
dearest Anna, we are one another again."
The very remarkable, scarcely credible effect of this occurrence on the
two lovers very soon made itself perceptible. Fräulein Aennchen took a
dislike to touching a spade, and she did really reign like a queen over
the vegetable world, inasmuch as, though taking care that her vassals
were properly supervised and attended to, she set no hand to the work
herself, but entrusted it to maids in whom she had confidence.
Herr Amandus, for his part, saw now that everything he had ever written
in the shape of verses was wretched, miserable trash, and, burying
himself in the works of the real poets, both of ancient and modern
times, his being was soon so filled with a beneficent enthusiasm that
no room was left for any consideration of himself. He arrived at the
conviction that a real poem has got to be something other than a
confused jumble of words shaken together under the influence of a
crude, jejeune delirium, and threw all his own (so-called) poetry, of
which he had had such a tremendous opinion, into the fire, becoming
once more quite the sensible young gentleman, clear and open in heart
and mind, which he had been originally.
And one morning Herr Dapsul did actually come down from his
astronomical tower to go to church with Fräulein Aennchen and Herr
Amandus von Nebelstern on the occasion of their marriage.
They led an exceedingly happy wedded life. But as to whether Herr
Dapsul's union with the Sylphide Nehabilah ever actually came to
anything the Chronicle of Dapsulheim is silent.
During the reading of this the Friends had laughed a good deal, and
they were unanimously of opinion that, though there was not a great
deal in the plot, yet that the details were so humorous and droll that,
as a whole, the tale was a success.
"As to the plot," Vincenz said, "there is rather a curious circumstance
connected with that. Not long since, happening to be dining at the
table of a certain lady of princely rank, there was a lady present who
had on a gold ring with a beautiful topaz, of which the remarkably
antique-looking form and workmanship attracted universal attention. We
thought it had been some precious heirloom, and were astonished to hear
that it had been found sticking on a carrot dug up on her property a
few years previously. Probably it had been lying pretty deep in the
ground, and had been brought towards the surface when the land was
trenched, so that the carrot had grown through it.
"The Princess pointed out what a good idea for a story this suggested,
and wished that I should set to work to write one at once on the
subject. So, you see, I hadn't far to go for the idea of the 'Vegetable
King and his People,' and I claim the invention of them for myself, for
there isn't a trace of him to be found in Gabalis or any other book of
the kind."
"Now," said Lothair, "I think we may say that on none of our former
Serapion evenings has our fare been of a more various character than
to-night. And it is good that we have managed to emerge from that
gruesome darkness into which we had wandered somehow--I am sure it is
hard to tell why--into the clear, brightsome light of day, although, no
doubt, a serious, careful person might, with some reason, say that all
the fantastic matter which we have so long been going on spinning and
accumulating might have a considerable tendency to induce confusion of
head, if not headache and feverishness."
"We should all do the best we can," said Theodore. "But let no one deem
that his own particular qualities and powers constitute the norm of
what the human understanding is to have laid before it. For there are
people--good sensible folks enough in other respects--who are so easily
made giddy in their heads that they think the rapid flight of an
awakened imagination is the result of an unsound condition of mind. So
that such people say, of this or the other writer, that he only writes
when he is under the influence of intoxicating drinks, and attribute
his imaginative writings to over-excited nerves, and a certain amount
of deliriousness thence arising. But everybody knows that although a
condition of mind raising from either of those causes can give rise to
a happy thought, or fortunate idea, it is impossible that it can yield
perfect and finished work, because that demands the very quietest study
and consideration."
On this evening Theodore had set before his friends some remarkably
superior wine sent to him by a friend on the Rhine. He poured what
remained of it into the glasses, and said:--
"I cannot explain why it should be so; but a melancholy foreboding
comes upon me that we are going to part for a long time, and may,
perhaps, never meet again. But surely the remembrance of those Serapion
evenings will long live in our minds. We have given free play to the
capricious promptings of our fancy. Each of us has spoken out what he
saw in his mind's eye, without supposing his ideas to be anything
extraordinary, or giving them forth as being so, knowing well that the
first essential of all effective composition is that kindly
unpretendingness which is the thing that has the power to warm the
heart and please the mind. If Fate is about to part us, then let us
always faithfully follow the rule of Saint Serapion, and vowing this to
each other, drink this last glass of our wine."
What Theodore suggested was accordingly done.
LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, STANFORD STREET
AND CHARING CROSS.
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