WEIRD TALES
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. II.
see also collection
Pin-Up Weird Tales
Pin-Up Weird Tales
This was the title that distinguished in the
art-catalogue of the works exhibited by the Berlin Academy of Arts
in September, 1816, a picture which came from the brush of the
skilful clever Associate of the Academy, C. Kolbe.2
There was such a peculiar charm in the piece that it attracted all
observers. A Doge, richly and magnificently dressed, and a Dogess at
his side, as richly adorned with jewellery, are stepping out on to a
balustered balcony; he is an old man, with
a grey beard and rusty red face, his features indicating a peculiar
blending of expressions, now revealing strength, now weakness, again
pride and arrogance, and again pure good-nature;
she is a young woman, with a far-away look
of yearning sadness and dreamy aspiration not only in her eyes but
also in her general bearing. Behind them is an elderly lady and a
man holding an open sun-shade. At one end of the balcony is a young
man blowing a conch-shaped horn, whilst in front of it a richly
decorated gondola, bearing the Venetian flag and having two
gondoliers, is rocking on the sea. In the background stretches the
sea itself studded with hundreds and hundreds of sails, whilst the
towers and palaces of magnificent Venice are seen rising out of its
waves. To the left is Saint Mark's, to the right, more in the front,
San Giorgio Maggiore. The following words were cut in the golden
frame of the picture.
Ah! senza amare,
Andare sul mare
Col sposo del mare,
Non puo consolare.
To go on the sea
With the spouse of the sea,
When loveless I be,
Is no comfort to me.
One day there arose before this picture a
fruitless altercation as to whether the artist really intended it
for anything more than a mere picture, that is, the temporary
situation, sufficiently indicated by the verse, of a decrepit old
man who with all his splendour and magnificence is unable to satisfy
the desires of a heart filled with yearning aspirations, or whether
he intended to represent an actual historical event. One after the
other the visitors left the place, tired of the discussion, so that
at length there were only two men left, both very good friends to
the noble art of painting. "I can't understand," said one of them,
"how people can spoil all their enjoyment by eternally hunting after
some jejune interpretation or explanation. Independently of the fact
that I have a pretty accurate notion of what the relations in life
between this Doge and Dogess were, I am more particularly struck by
the subdued richness and power that characterises the picture as a
whole. Look at this flag with the winged lions, how they flutter in
the breeze as if they swayed the world. O beautiful Venice!" He
began to recite Turandot's3
riddle of Lion of the Adriatic, "Dimmi, qual
sia quella terribil fera," &c. He had hardly come to the end
when a sonorous masculine voice broke in with Calaf's4
solution, "Tu quadrupede fera," &c.
Unobserved by the friends, a man of tall and noble appearance, his
grey mantle thrown picturesquely across his shoulder, had taken up a
position behind them, and was examining the picture with sparkling
eyes. They got into conversation, and the stranger said almost in
atone of solemnity, "It is indeed a singular mystery, how a picture
often arises in the mind of an artist, the figures of which,
previously indistinguishable, incorporate mist driving about in
empty space, first seem to shape themselves into vitality in his
mind, and there seem to find their home. Suddenly the picture
connects itself with the past, or even with the future, representing
something that has really happened or that will happen. Perhaps it
was not known to Kolbe himself that the persons he was representing
in this picture are none other than the Doge Marino Falieri5
and his lady Annunciata."
The stranger paused, but the two friends urgently
entreated him to solve for them this riddle as he had solved that of
the Lion of the Adriatic. Whereupon he replied, "If you have
patience, my inquisitive sirs, I will at once explain the picture to
you by telling you Falieri's history. But have you patience? I shall
be very circumstantial, for I cannot speak otherwise of things which
stand so life-like before my eyes that I seem to have seen them
myself. And that may very well be the case, for all
historians--amongst whom I happen to be one--are properly a kind of
talking ghost of past ages."
The friends accompanied the stranger into a
retired room, when, without further preamble, he began as follows:--
It is now a long time ago, and if I mistake not,
it was in the month of August, 1354, that the valiant Genoese
captain, Paganino Doria6
by name, utterly routed the Venetians and took their town of
Parenzo. And his well-manned galleys were now cruising backwards and
forwards in the Lagune, close in front of Venice, like ravenous
beasts of prey which, goaded by hunger, roam restlessly up and down
spying out where they may most safely pounce upon their victims; and
both people and seignory were panic-stricken with fear. All the male
population, liable to military service, and everybody who could lift
an arm, flew to their weapons or seized an oar. The harbour of Saint
Nicholas was the gathering-place for the bands. Ships and trees were
sunk, and chains riveted to chains, to lock the harbour-mouth
against the enemy. Whilst there was heard the rattle of arms and the
wild tumult of preparation, and whilst the ponderous masses
thundered down into the foaming sea, on the Rialto the agents of the
seignory were wiping the cold sweat from their pale brows, and with
troubled countenances and hoarse voices offering almost fabulous
percentage for ready money, for the straitened republic was in want
of this necessary also. Moreover, it was determined by the
inscrutable decree of Providence that just at this period of extreme
distress and anxiety, the faithful shepherd should be taken away
from his troubled flock. Completely borne down by the burden of the
public calamity, the Doge Andrea Dandolo7
died; the people called him the "dear good count" (il
caro contino), because he was always cordial and kind, and never
crossed Saint Mark's Square without speaking a word of comfort to
those in need of good advice, or giving a few sequins8
to those who were in want of money. And as every blow is wont to
fall with double sharpness upon those who are discouraged by
misfortune, when at other times they would hardly have felt it at
all, so now, when the people heard the bells of Saint Mark's
proclaim in solemn muffled tones the death of their Duke, they were
utterly undone with sorrow and grief. Their support, their hope, was
now gone, and they would have to bend their necks to the Genoese
yoke, they cried, in despite of the fact that Dandolo's loss did not
seem to have any very counteractive effect upon the progress that
was being made with all necessary warlike preparations. The "dear
good count" had loved to live in peace and quietness, preferring to
follow the wondrous courses of the stars rather than the
problematical complications of state policy; he understood how to
arrange a procession on Easter Day better than how to lead an army.
The object now was to elect a Doge who, endowed at
one and the same time with the valour and genius of a war captain,
and with skill in statecraft, should save Venice, now tottering on
her foundations, from the threatening power of her bold and
ever-bolder enemy. But when the senators assembled there was none
but what had a gloomy face, hopeless looks, and head bent earthwards
and resting on his supporting hand. Where were they to find a man
who could seize the unguided helm and direct the bark of the state
aright? At last the oldest of the councillors, called Marino
Bodoeri, lifted up his voice and said, "You will not find him here
around us, or amongst us; direct your eyes to Avignon, upon Marino
Falieri, whom we sent to congratulate Pope Innocent9
on his elevation to the Papal dignity; he can find better work to do
now; he's the man for us; let us choose him Doge to stem this
current of adversity. You will urge by way of objection that he is
now almost eighty years old, that his hair and beard are white as
silver, that his blithe appearance, fiery eye, and the deep red of
his nose and cheeks are to be ascribed, as his traducers maintain,
to good Cyprus wine rather than to energy of character; but heed not
that. Remember what conspicuous bravery this Marino Falieri showed
as admiral of the fleet in the Black Sea, and bear in mind the great
services which prevailed with the Procurators of Saint Mark to
invest this Falieri with the rich countship of Valdemarino." Thus
highly did Bodoeri extol Falieri's virtues; and he had a ready
answer for all objections, so that at length all voices were
unanimous in electing Falieri. Several, however, still continued to
allude to his hot, passionate temper, his ambition, and his
self-will; but they were met with the reply: "And it is exactly
because all these have gone from the old man, that we choose the
grey-beard Falieri and not the
youth Falieri." And these censuring voices
were completely silenced when the people, learning upon whom the
choice had fallen, greeted it with the loudest and most extravagant
demonstrations of delight. Do we not know that in such dangerous
times, in times of such tension and unrest, any resolution that
really is a resolution is accepted as an inspiration from Heaven?
Thus it came to pass that the "dear good count" and all his
gentleness and piety were forgotten, and every one cried, "By Saint
Mark, this Marino ought long ago to have been our Doge, and then we
should not have yon arrogant Doria before our very doors." And
crippled soldiers painfully lifted up their wounded arms and cried,
"That is Falieri who beat the Morbassan10--the
valiant captain whose victorious banners waved in the Black Sea."
Wherever a knot of people gathered, there was one amongst them
telling of Falieri's heroic deeds; and, as though Doria were already
defeated, the air rang with wild shouts of triumph. An additional
reason for this was that Nicolo Pisani11
who, Heaven knows why! instead of going to meet Doria with his
fleet, had coolly sailed away to Sardinia,12
was now returned. Doria withdrew from the Lagune; and what was
really due to the approach of Pisani's fleet was ascribed to the
formidable name of Marino Falieri. Then the people and the seignory
were seized by a kind of frantic ecstasy that such an auspicious
choice had been made; and as an uncommon way of testifying the same,
it was determined to welcome the newly elected Doge as if he were a
messenger from heaven bringing honour, victory, and abundance of
riches. Twelve nobles, each accompanied by a numerous retinue in
rich dresses, had been sent by the Seignory to Verona, where the
ambassadors of the Republic were again to announce to Falieri, on
his arrival, with all due ceremony, his elevation to the supreme
office in the state. Then fifteen richly decorated vessels of state,
equipped by the Podesta13
of Chioggia, and under the command of his own son Taddeo
Giustiniani, took the Doge and his attendant company on board at
Chiozza; and now they moved on like the triumphal procession of a
most mighty and victorious monarch to St. Clement's, where the
Bucentaur14
was awaiting the Doge.
At this very moment, namely, when Marino Falieri
was about to set foot on board the Bucentaur,--and that was on the
evening of the 3d of October about sunset--a poor unfortunate man
lay stretched at full length on the hard marble pavement in front of
the Customhouse. A few rags of striped linen, of a colour now no
longer recognisable, the remains of what apparently had once been a
sailor's dress, such as was worn by the very poorest of the
people--porters and assistant oarsmen, hung about his lean starved
body. There was not a trace of a shirt to be seen, except the poor
fellow's own skin, which peeped through his rags almost everywhere,
and was so white and delicate that the very noblest need not have
been shy or ashamed of it Accordingly, his leanness only served to
display more fully the perfect proportions of his well-knit frame. A
careful scrutiny of the unfortunate's light- chestnut hair, now
hanging all tangled and dishevelled about his exquisitely beautiful
forehead, his blue eyes dimmed with extreme misery, his Roman nose,
his fine formed lips--he seemed to be not more than twenty years old
at the most--inevitably suggested that he was of good birth, and had
by some adverse turn of fortune been thrown amongst the meanest
classes of the people.
As remarked, the youth lay in front of the pillars
of the Custom-house, his head resting on his right arm, and his eyes
riveted in a vacant stare upon the sea, without movement or change
of posture. An observer might well have fancied that he was devoid
of life, or that death had fixed him there whilst turning him into
an image of stone, had not a deep sigh escaped him from time to
time, as if wrung from him by unutterable pain. And they were in
fact occasioned by the pain of his left arm, which had apparently
been seriously wounded, and was lying stretched out on the pavement,
wrapped up in bloody rags.
All labour had ceased; the hum of trade was no
longer heard; all Venice, in thousands of boats and gondolas, was
gone out to meet the much-lauded Falieri. Hence it was that the
unhappy youth was sighing away his pain in utter helplessness. But
just as his weary head fell back upon the pavement, and he seemed on
the point of fainting, a hoarse and very querulous voice cried
several times in succession, "Antonio, my dear Antonio." At length
Antonio painfully raised himself partly up; and, turning his head
towards the pillars of the Custom- house, whence the voice seemed to
proceed, he replied very faintly, and in a scarce intelligible
voice, "Who is calling me? Who has come to cast my dead body into
the sea, for it will soon be all over with me." Then a little
shrivelled wrinkled crone came up panting and coughing, hobbling
along by the aid of her staff; she approached the wounded youth, and
squatting down beside him, she burst out into a most repulsive
chuckling and laughing. "You foolish child, you foolish child,"
whispered the old woman, "are you going to perish here--will you
stay here to die, while a golden fortune is waiting for you? Look
yonder, look yonder at yon blazing fire in the west; there are
sequins for you! But you must eat, dear Antonio, eat and drink; for
it's only hunger which has made you fall down here on this cold
pavement. Your arm is now quite well again, yes, that it is."
Antonio recognised in the old crone the singular beggar-woman who
was generally to be seen on the steps of the Franciscan Church,
chuckling to herself and laughing, and soliciting alms from the
worshippers; he himself, urged by some inward inexplicable
propensity, had often thrown her a hard-earned penny, which he had
not had to spare. "Leave me, leave me in peace, you insane old
woman," he said; "but you are right, it is hunger more than my wound
which has made me weak and miserable; for three days I have not
earned a farthing. I wanted to go over to the monastery15
and see if I could get a spoonful or two of the soup that is made
for invalids; but all my companions have gone; there is not one to
have compassion upon me and take me in his
barca;16
and now I have fallen down here, and shall, I expect, never get up
again." "Hi! hi! hi! hi!" chuckled the old woman; "why do you begin
to despair so soon? Why lose heart so quickly? You are thirsty and
hungry, but I can help you. Here are a few fine dried fish which I
bought only to-day in the Mint; here is lemon-juice and a piece of
nice white bread; eat, my son; and then we will look at the wounded
arm." And the old woman proceeded to bring forth fish, bread, and
lemon juice from the bag which hung like a hood down her back, and
also projected right above her bent head. As soon as Antonio had
moistened his parched and burning lips with the cool drink, he felt
the pangs of hunger return with double fury, and he greedily
devoured the bread and the fish.
Meanwhile the old woman was busy unwrapping the
rags from his wounded arm, and it was found that, though it was
badly crushed, the wound was progressing favourably towards healing.
The old woman took a salve out of a little box and warmed it with
the breath of her mouth, and as she rubbed it on the wound she
asked, "But who then has given you such a nasty blow, my poor boy?"
Antonio was so refreshed and charged anew with vital energy that he
had raised himself completely up; his eyes flashed, and he shook his
doubled fist above his head, crying, "Oh! that rascal Nicolo; he
tried to maim me, because he envies me every wretched penny that any
generous hand bestows upon me. You know, old dame, that I barely
managed to hold body and soul together by helping to carry bales of
goods from ships and freight-boats to the
dépôt of the Germans, the so-called Fontego17--of
course you know the building"--Directly Antonio uttered the word
Fontego, the old woman began to chuckle and laugh most abominably,
and to mumble, "Fontego-- Fontego--Fontego." "Have done with your
insane laughing if I am to go on with my story," added Antonio
angrily. At once the old woman grew quiet, and Antonio continued,
"after a time I saved a little bit of money, and bought a new
jerkin, so that I looked quite fine; and then I got enrolled amongst
the gondoliers. As I was always in a blithe humour, worked hard, and
knew a great many good songs, I soon earned a good deal more than
the rest. This, however, awakened my comrades' envy. They blackened
my character to my master, so that he turned me adrift; and
everywhere where I went or where I stood they cried after me,
'German cur! Cursed heretic!' Three days ago, as I was helping to
unload a boat near St. Sebastian, they fell upon me with sticks and
stones. I defended myself stoutly, but that malicious Nicolo dealt
me a blow with his oar, which grazed my head and severely injured my
arm, and knocked me on the ground. Ay, you've given me a good meal,
old woman, and I am sure I feel that your salve has done my arm a
world of good. See, I can already move it easily--now I shall be
able to row bravely again." Antonio had risen up from the ground,
and was swinging his arm violently backwards and forwards, but the
old woman again fell to chuckling and laughing loudly, whilst she
hobbled round about him in the most extraordinary fashion--dancing
with short tripping steps as it were--and she cried, "My son, my
good boy, my good lad--row on bravely--he is coming--he is coming.
The gold is shining red in the bright flames. Row on stoutly, row
on; but only once more, only once more; and then never again."
But Antonio was not paying the slightest heed to
the old woman's words, for the most splendid of spectacles was
unfolding itself before his eyes. The Bucentaur, with the Lion of
the Adriatic on her fluttering standard, was coming along from St.
Clement's to the measured stroke of the oars like a mighty winged
golden swan. Surrounded by innumerable
barcas
and gondolas, and with her head proudly and boldly raised, she
appeared like a princess commanding a triumphing army, that had
emerged from the depths of the sea, wearing bright and gaily decked
helmets. The evening sun was sending down his fiery rays upon the
sea and upon Venice, so that everything appeared to have been
plunged into a bath of blazing fire; but whilst Antonio, completely
forgetful of all his unhappiness, was standing gazing with wonder
and delight, the gleams of the sun grew more bloody and more bloody.
The wind whistled shrilly and harshly, and a hollow threatening echo
came rolling in from the open sea outside. Down burst the storm in
the midst of black clouds, and enshrouded all in thick darkness,
whilst the waves rose higher and higher, pouring in from the
thundering sea like foaming hissing monsters, threatening to engulf
everything. The gondolas and barcas were
driven in all directions like scattered feathers. The Bucentaur,
unable to resist the storm owing to its flat bottom, was yawing from
side to side. Instead of the jubilant notes of trumpets and cornets,
there was heard through the storm the anxious cries of those in
distress.
Antonio gazed upon the scene like one stupefied,
without sense and motion. But then there came a rattling of chains
immediately in front of him; he looked down, and saw a little canoe,
which was chained to the wall, and was being tossed up and down by
the waves; and a thought entered his mind like a flash of lightning.
He leaped into the canoe, unfastened it, seized the oar which he
found in it, and pushed out boldly and confidently into the sea,
directly towards the Bucentaur. The nearer he came to it the more
distinctly could he hear shouts for help. "Here, here, come
here--save the Doge, save the Doge." It is well known that little
fisher-canoes are safer and better to manage in the Lagune when it
is stormy than are larger boats; and accordingly these little craft
were hastening from all sides to the rescue of Marino Falieri's
invaluable person. But it is an invariable principle in life that
the Eternal Power reserves every bold deed as a brilliant success to
the one specially chosen for it, and hence all others have all their
pains for nothing. And as on this occasion it was poor Antonio who
was destined to achieve the rescue of the newly elected Doge, he
alone succeeded in working his way on to the Bucentaur in his little
insignificant fisher-canoe. Old Marino Falieri, familiar with such
dangers, stepped firmly, without a moment's hesitation, from the
sumptuous but treacherous Bucentaur into poor Antonio's little
craft, which, gliding smoothly over the raging waves like a dolphin,
brought him in a few minutes to St. Mark's Square. The old man, his
clothing saturated with wet, and with large drops of sea-spray in
his grey beard, was conducted into the church, where the nobles with
blanched faces concluded the ceremonies connected with the Doge's
public entry. But the people, as well as the seignory, confounded by
this unfortunate contretemps, to which was
also added the fact that the Doge, in the hurry and confusion, had
been led between the two columns where common malefactors were
generally executed, grew silent in the midst of their triumph, and
thus the day that had begun in festive fashion ended in gloom and
sadness.
Nobody seemed to think about the Doge's rescuer;
nor did Antonio himself think about it, for he was lying in the
peristyle of the Ducal Palace, half dead with fatigue, and fainting
with the pain caused by his wound, which had again burst open. He
was therefore all the more surprised when just before midnight a
Ducal halberdier took him by the shoulders, saying, "Come along,
friend," and led him into the palace, where he pushed him into the
Duke's chamber. The old man came to meet him with a kindly smile,
and said, pointing to a couple of purses lying on the table, "You
have borne yourself bravely, my son. Here; take these three thousand
sequins, and if you want more ask for them; but have the goodness
never to come into my presence again." As he said these last words
the old man's eyes flashed with fire, and the tip of his nose grew a
darker red Antonio could not fathom the old man's mind; he did not,
however, trouble himself overmuch about it, but with some little
difficulty took up the purses, which he believed he had honestly and
rightly earned.
Next morning old Falieri, conspicuous in the
splendours of his newly acquired dignity, stood in one of the lofty
bay windows of the palace, watching the bustling scene below, where
the people were busy engaged in practising all kinds of weapons,
when Bodoeri, who from the days when he was a youth had enjoyed the
intimate and unchangeable friendship of the Doge, entered the
apartment. As, however, the Doge was quite wrapped up in himself and
his dignity, and did not appear to notice his entrance, Bodoeri
clapped his hands together and cried with a loud laugh, "Come,
Falieri, what are all these sublime thoughts that are being hatched
and nourished in your mind since you first put the Doge's bent
bonnet on?" Falieri, coming to himself like one awakening from a
dream, stepped forward to meet his old friend with an air of forced
amiability. He felt that he really owed his bonnet to Bodoeri, and
the words of the latter seemed to be a reminder of the fact. But
since every obligation weighed like a burden upon Falieri's proud
ambitious spirit, and he could not dismiss the oldest member of the
Council, and his tried friend to boot, as he had dismissed poor
Antonio, he constrained himself to utter a few words of thanks, and
immediately began to speak of the measures to be adopted to meet
their enemy, who was now developing so great an activity in every
direction. Bodoeri interrupted him and said, cunningly smiling,
"That, and all else that the state demands of you, we will maturely
weigh and consider an hour or two hence in a full meeting of the
Great Council. I have not come to you thus early in order to invent
a plan for defeating yon presumptuous Doria or bringing to reason
Louis18
the Hungarian, who is again setting his longing eyes upon our
Dalmatian seaports. No, Marino, I was thinking solely about you, and
about what you perhaps would not guess--your marriage." "How came
you to think of such a thing as that?"
replied the Doge, greatly annoyed; and rising to his feet, he turned
his back upon Bodoeri and looked out of the window. "It's a long
time to Ascension Day. By that time I hope the enemy will be routed,
and that victory, honour, additional riches, and a wider extension
of power will have been won for the sea-born lion of the Adriatic.
The chaste bride shall find her bridegroom worthy of her." "Pshaw!
pshaw!" interrupted Bodoeri, impatiently; "you are talking about
that memorable ceremony on Ascension Day, when you will throw the
gold ring from the Bucentaur into the waves under the impression
that you are wedding the Adriatic Sea. But do you not know,--you,
Marino, you, kinsman to the sea,--of any other bride than the cold,
damp, treacherous element which you delude yourself into the belief
that you rule, and which only yesterday revolted against you in such
dangerous fashion? Marry, how can you fancy lying in the arms of
such a bride of such a wild, wayward thing? Why when you only just
skimmed her lips as you rode along in the Bucentaur she at once
began to rage and storm. Would an entire Vesuvius of fiery passion
suffice to warm the icy bosom of such a false bride as that?
Continually faithless, she is wedded time after time, nor does she
receive the ring as a treasured symbol of love, but she extorts it
as a tribute from a slave? No, Marino, I was thinking of your
marriage to the most beautiful child of the earth than can be
found." "You are prating utter nonsense, utter nonsense, I tell you,
old man," murmured Falieri without turning away from the window. "I,
a grey-haired old man, eighty years of age, burdened with toil and
trouble, who have never been married, and now hardly capable of
loving"---- "Stop," cried Bodoeri, "don't slander yourself. Does not
the Winter, however rough and cold he may be, at last stretch out
his longing arms towards the beautiful goddess who comes to meet him
borne by balmy western winds? And when he presses her to his
benumbed bosom, when a gentle glow pervades his veins, where then is
his ice and his snow? You say you are eighty years old; that is
true; but do you measure old age then by years merely? Don't you
carry your head as erect and walk with as firm a step as you did
forty summers ago? Or do you perhaps feel that your strength is
failing you, that you must carry a lighter sword, that you grow
faint when you walk fast, or get short of breath when you ascend the
steps of the Ducal Palace?" "No, by Heaven, no," broke in Falieri
upon his friend, as he turned away from the window with an abrupt
passionate movement and approached him, "no, I feel no traces of age
upon me." "Well then," continued Bodoeri, "take deep draughts in
your old age of all the delights of earth which are now destined for
you. Elevate the woman whom I have chosen for you to be your Dogess;
and then all the ladies of Venice will be constrained to admit that
she stands first of all in beauty and in virtue, even as the
Venetians recognise in you their captain in valour, intellect, and
power."
Bodoeri now began to sketch the picture of a
beautiful woman, and in doing so he knew how to mix his colours so
cleverly, and lay them on with so much vigour and effect, that old
Falieri's eyes began to sparkle, and his face grew redder and
redder, whilst he puckered up his mouth and smacked his lips as if
he were draining sundry glasses of fiery Syracuse. "But who is this
paragon of loveliness of whom you are speaking?" said he at last
with a smirk. "I mean nobody else but my dear niece--it's she I
mean," replied Bodoeri. "What! your niece?" interrupted Falieri.
"Why, she was married to Bertuccio Nenolo when I was Podesta of
Treviso." "Oh! you are thinking about my niece Francesca," continued
Bodoeri, "but it is her sweet daughter whom I intend for you. You
know how rude, rough Nenolo was enticed to the wars and drowned at
sea. Francesca buried her pain and grief in a Roman nunnery, and so
I had little Annunciata brought up in strict seclusion at my villa
in Treviso"---- "What!" cried Falieri, again impatiently
interrupting the old man, "you mean me to raise your niece's
daughter to the dignity of Dogess? How long is it since Nenolo was
married? Annunciata must be a child--at the most only ten years old.
When I was Podesta in Treviso, Nenolo had not even thought of
marrying, and that's"---- "Twenty-five years ago," interposed
Bodoeri, laughing; "come, you are getting all at sea with your
memory of the flight of time, it goes so rapidly with you.
Annunciata is a maiden of nineteen, beautiful as the sun, modest,
submissive, inexperienced in love, for she has hardly ever seen a
man. She will cling to you with childlike affection and unassuming
devotion." "I will see her, I will see her," exclaimed the Doge,
whose eyes again beheld the picture of the beautiful Annunciata
which Bodoeri had sketched.
His desire was gratified the self-same day; for
immediately he got back to his own apartments from the meeting of
the Great Council, the crafty Bodoeri, who no doubt had many reasons
for wishing to see his niece Dogess at Falieri's side, brought the
lovely Annunciata to him secretly. Now, when old Falieri saw the
angelic maiden, he was quite taken aback by her wonderful beauty,
and was scarcely able to stammer out a few unintelligible words as
he sued for her hand. Annunciata, no doubt well instructed by
Bodoeri beforehand, fell upon her knees before the princely old man,
her cheeks flushing crimson. She grasped his hand and pressed it to
her lips, softly whispering, "O sir, will you indeed honour me by
raising me to a place at your side on your princely throne? Oh! then
I will reverence you from the depths of my soul, and will continue
your faithful handmaiden as long as I have breath." Old Falieri was
beside himself with happiness and delight. As Annunciata took his
hand he felt a convulsive throb in every limb; and then his head and
all his body began to tremble and totter to such a degree that he
had to sink hurriedly into his great arm-chair. It seemed as if he
were about to refute Bodoeri's good opinion as to the strength and
toughness of his eighty summers. Bodoeri, in fact, could not keep
back the peculiar smile that darted across his lips; innocent, un*
sophisticated Annunciata observed nothing; and happily no one else
was present Finally it was resolved for some reason--either because
old Falieri felt in what an uncomfortable position he would appear
in the eyes of the people as the betrothed of a maiden of nineteen,
or because it occurred to him as a sort of presentiment that the
Venetians, who were so prone to mockery, ought not to be so directly
challenged to indulge in it, or because he deemed it better to say
nothing at all about the critical period of betrothal--at any rate,
it was resolved, with Bodoeri's consent, that the marriage should be
celebrated with the greatest secrecy, and that then some days later
the Dogess should be introduced to the seignory and the people as if
she had been some time married to Falieri, and had just arrived from
Treviso, where she had been staying during Falieri's mission to
Avignon.
Let us now turn our eyes upon yon neatly dressed
handsome youth who is going up and down the Rialto with his purse of
sequins in his hand, conversing with Jews, Turks, Armenians, Greeks.19
He turns away his face with a frown, walks on further, stands still,
turns round, and ultimately has himself rowed by a gondolier to St.
Mark's Square. There he walks up and down with uncertain hesitating
steps, his arms folded and his eyes bent upon the ground; nor does
he observe, or even have any idea, that all the whispering and low
coughing from various windows and various richly draped balconies
are love-signals which are meant for him. Who would have easily
recognised in this youth the same Antonio who a few days before had
lain on the marble pavement in front of the Custom-house, poor,
ragged, and miserable? "My dear boy! My dear golden boy, Antonio,
good day, good day!" Thus he was greeted by the old beggar-woman,
who sat on the steps leading to St. Mark's Church, and whom he was
going past without observing. Turning abruptly round, he recognised
the old woman, and, dipping his hand into his purse, took out a
handful of sequins with the intention of throwing them to her. "Oh!
keep your gold in your purse," chuckled and laughed the old woman;
"what should I do with your money? am I not rich enough? But if you
want to do me a kindness, get me a new hood made, for this which I
am now wearing is no longer any protection against wind and weather.
Yes, please get me one, my dear boy, my dear golden boy,--but keep
away from the Fontego,--keep away from the Fontego." Antonio stared
into the old woman's pale yellow face, the deep wrinkles in which
twitched convulsively in a strange awe-inspiring way. And when she
clapped her lean bony hands together so that the joints cracked, and
continued her disagreeable laugh, and went on repeating in a hoarse
voice, "Keep away from the Fontego," Antonio cried, "Can you not
have done with that mad insane nonsense, you old witch?"
As Antonio uttered this word, the old woman, as if
struck by a lightning-flash, came rolling down the high marble steps
like a ball. Antonio leapt forward and grasped her by both hands,
and so prevented her from falling heavily. "O my good lad, my good
lad," said the old crone in a low, querulous voice, "what a hideous
word that was which you uttered. Kill me rather than repeat that
word to me again. Oh! you don't know how deeply you have cut me to
the heart, me--who have such a true affection for you--no, you don't
know"---- Abruptly breaking off, she wrapped up her head in the dark
brown cloth flaps which covered her shoulders like a short mantle,
and sighed and moaned as if suffering unspeakable pain. Antonio felt
his heart strangely moved; lifting up the old woman, he carried her
up into the vestibule of the church, and set her down upon one of
the marble benches which were there. "You have been kind to me, old
woman," he began, after he had liberated her head from the ugly
cloth flaps, "you have been kind to me, since it is to you that I
really owe all my prosperity; for if you had not stood by me in the
hour of need, I should long ere this have been at the bottom of the
sea, nor should I have rescued the old Doge, and received these good
sequins. But even if you had not shown that kindness to me, I yet
feel that I should have a special liking for you as long as I live,
in spite of the fact that your insane behaviour--chuckling and
laughing so horribly--strikes my heart with awe. To tell you the
truth, old dame, even when I had hard work to get a living by
carrying merchandise and rowing, I always felt as if I must work
still harder that I might have a few pence to give you." "O son of
my heart, my golden Tonino," cried the old woman, raising her
shrivelled arms above her head, whilst her staff fell rattling on
the marble floor and rolled away from her, "O Tonino mine, I know
it; yes, I know it; you must cling to me with all your soul, you may
do as you will, for--but hush! hush! hush!" The old woman stooped
painfully down in order to reach her staff, but Antonio picked it up
and handed it to her.
Leaning her sharp chin on her staff, and riveting
her eyes in a set stare upon the ground, she began to speak in a
reserved but hollow voice, "Tell me, my child, have you no
recollection at all of any former time, of what you did or where you
were before you found yourself here, a poor wretch hardly able to
keep body and soul together?" With a deep sigh, Antonio took his
seat beside the old crone and then began, "Alas! mother, only too
well do I know that I was born of parents living in the most
prosperous circumstances; but who they were and how I came to leave
them, of this I have not the slightest notion, nor could I have. I
remember very well a tall handsome man, who often took me in his
arms and smothered me with kisses and put sweets in my mouth. And I
can also in the same way call to mind a pleasant and pretty lady,
who used to dress and undress me and place me in a soft little bed
every night, and who in fact was very kind to me in every way. They
used to talk to me in a foreign, sonorous language, and I also
stammered several words of the same tongue after them. Whilst I was
an oarsman my jealous rivals used to say I must be of German origin,
from the colour of my hair and eyes, and from my general build. And
this I believe myself, for the language which that man spoke (he
must have been my father) was German. But the most vivid
recollection which I have of that time is that of one terrible
night, when I was awakened out of deep sleep by a fearful scream of
distress. People were running about the house; doors were being
opened and banged to; I grew terribly frightened, and began to cry
loudly. Then the lady who used to dress me and take care of me burst
into the room, snatched me out of bed, stopped my mouth, enveloped
me in shawls, and ran off with me. From that moment I can remember
nothing more, until I found myself again in a splendid house,
situated in a most charming district. Then there rises up the image
of a man whom I called 'father,' a majestic man of noble but
benevolent appearance. Like all the rest in the house, he spoke
Italian.
"For several weeks I had not seen my father, when
one day several ugly- looking strangers came and kicked up a great
deal of noise in the house, rummaging about and turning out
everything. When they saw me they asked who I was, and what I was
doing there? 'Don't you know I'm Antonio, and belong to the house?'
I replied; but they laughed in my face and tore off all my fine
clothes and turned me out of doors, threatening to have me whipped
if I dared to show myself again. I ran away screaming and crying. I
had not gone a hundred yards from the house when I met an old man,
whom I recognised as being one of my foster-father's servants. 'Come
along, Antonio,' he said, taking hold of my hand, 'come along, my
poor boy, that house is now closed to us both for ever. We must both
look out and see how we can earn a crust of bread.'
"The old man brought me along with him here. He
was not so poor as he seemed to be from his mean clothing. Directly
we arrived I saw him rip up his jerkin and produce a bag of sequins;
and he spent the whole day running about on the Rialto, now acting
as broker, now dealing on his own account. I had always to be close
at his heels; and whenever he had made a bargain he had a habit of
begging a trifle for the figliuolo (little
boy). Every one whom I looked boldly in the face was glad to pull
out a few pence, which the old man pocketed with infinite
satisfaction, affirming, as he stroked my cheeks, that he was saving
it up to buy me a new jerkin. I was very comfortable with the old
man, whom the people called Old Father Bluenose, though for what
reason I don't know. But this life did not last long. You will
remember that terrible time, old woman, when one day the earth began
to tremble, and towers and palaces were shaken to their very
foundations and began to reel and totter, and the bells to ring as
if tolled by the arms of invisible giants. Hardly seven years have
passed since that day. Fortunately I escaped along with my old man
out of the house before it fell in with a crash behind us. There was
no business doing; everybody on the Rialto seemed stunned, and
everything lifeless. But this dreadful event was only the precursor
of another approaching monster, which soon breathed out its
poisonous breath over the town and the surrounding country. It was
known that the pestilence, which had first made its way from the
Levant into Sicily, was committing havoc in Tuscany.20
As yet Venice had been spared. One day Old Father Bluenose was
dealing with an Armenian on the Rialto; they were agreed over their
bargain, and warmly shook hands. Father Bluenose had sold the
Armenian certain good wares at a very low price, and now asked for
the usual trifle for the figliuolo. The
stranger, a big stalwart man with a thick curly beard (I can see him
now), bent a kind look upon me, and then kissed me, pressing a few
sequins into my hand, which I hastily pocketed. We took a gondola to
St. Mark's. On the way the old man asked me for the sequins, but for
some reason or other, I don't know what induced me to do it, I
maintained that I must keep them myself, since the Armenian had
wished me to do so. The old man got angry; but whilst he was
quarrelling with me I noticed a disagreeable dirty yellow colour
spreading over his face, and that he was mixing up all sorts of
incoherent nonsense in his talk. When we reached the Square he
reeled about like a drunken man, until he fell to the ground in
front of the Ducal Palace--dead. With a loud wail I threw myself
upon the corpse. The people came running round us, but as soon as
the dreaded cry 'The pestilence! the pestilence!' was heard, they
scattered and flew apart in terror. At the same moment I was seized
by a dull numbing pain, and my senses left me.
"When I awoke I found I was in a spacious room,
lying on a plain mattress, and covered with a blanket. Round about
me there were fully twenty or thirty other pale ghastly forms lying
on similar mattresses. As I learned later, certain compassionate
monks, who happened to be just coming out of St. Mark's, had, on
finding signs of life in me, put me in a gondola and got me taken
over to Giudecca into the monastery of San Giorgio Maggiore, where
the Benedictines had established a hospital. How can I describe to
you, old woman, this moment of re- awakening? The violence of the
plague had completely robbed me of all recollections of the past.
Just as if the spark of life had been suddenly dropped into a
lifeless statue, I had but a momentary kind of existence, so to
speak, linked on to nothing. You may imagine what trouble, what
distress this life occasioned me in which my consciousness seemed to
swim in empty space without an anchorage. All that the monks could
tell me was that I had been found beside Father Bluenose, whose son
I was generally accounted to be. Gradually and slowly I gathered my
thoughts together, and tried to reflect upon my previous life, but
what I have told you, old dame, is all that I can remember of it,
and that consists only of certain individual disconnected pictures.
Oh! this miserable being-alone-in-the-world! I can't be gay and
happy, no matter what may happen!" "Tonino, my dear Tonino," said
the old woman, "be contented with what the present moment gives
you."
"Say no more, old woman, say no more," interrupted
Antonio; "there is still something else which embitters my life,
following me about incessantly everywhere; I know it will be the
utter ruin of me in the end. An unspeakable longing,--a consuming
aspiration for something,--I can neither say nor even conceive what
it is--has taken complete possession of my heart and mind since I
awoke to renewed life in the hospital. Whilst I was still poor and
wretched, and threw myself down at night on my hard couch, weary and
worn out by the hard heavy labour of the day, a dream used to come
to me, and, fanning my hot brow with balmy rustling breezes, shed
about my heart all the inexpressible bliss of some single happy
moment, in which the Eternal Power had been pleased to grant me in
thought a glimpse of the delights of heaven, and the memory of which
was treasured up in the recesses of my soul I now rest on soft
cushions, and no labour consumes my strength: but if I awaken out of
a dream, or if in my waking hours the recollection of that great
moment returns to my mind, I feel that the lonely wretched existence
I lead is just as much an oppressive burden now as it was then, and
that it is vain for me to try and shake it off. All my thinking and
all my inquiries are fruitless; I cannot fathom what this glorious
thing is which formerly happened in my life. Its mysterious and
alas! to me, unintelligible echo, as it were, fills me with such
great happiness; but will not this happiness pass over into the most
agonising pain, and torture me to death, when I am obliged to
acknowledge that all my hope of ever finding that unknown Eden
again, nay, that even the courage to search for it, is lost? Can
there indeed remain traces of that which has vanished without
leaving any sign behind it?" Antonio ceased speaking, and a deep and
painful sigh escaped his breast.
During his narrative the old crone had behaved
like one who sympathised fully with his trouble, and felt all that
he felt, and like a mirror reflected every movement and gesture
which the pain wrung from him. "Tonino," she now began in a tearful
voice, "my dear Tonino, do you mean to tell me that you let your
courage sink because the remembrance of some glorious moment in your
life has perished out of your mind? You foolish child! You foolish
child! Listen to--hi! hi! hi!" The old woman began to chuckle and
laugh in her usual disagreeable way, and to hop about on the marble
floor. Some people came; she cowered down in her accustomed posture;
they threw her alms. "Antonio--lead me away, Antonio--away to the
sea," she croaked Almost involuntarily--he could not explain how it
came about--he took her by the arm and led her slowly across St.
Mark's Square. On the way the old woman muttered softly and
solemnly, "Antonio, do you see these dark stains of blood here on
the ground? Yes, blood--much blood--much blood everywhere! But, hi!
hi! hi! Roses will spring up out of the blood--beautiful red roses
for a wreath for you--for your sweetheart. O good Lord of all, what
lovely angel of light is this, who is coming to meet you with such
grace and such a bright starry smile? Her lily-white arms are
stretched out to embrace you. O Antonio, you lucky, lucky lad! bear
yourself bravely! bear yourself bravely! And at the sweet hour of
sunset you may pluck myrtle-leaves--myrtle-leaves for the bride--for
the maiden-widow--hi! hi! hi! Myrtle-leaves plucked at the hour of
sunset, but these will not be blossoms until midnight! Do you hear
the whisperings of the night-winds? the longing moaning swell of the
sea? Row away bravely, my bold oarsman, row away bravely!" Antonio's
heart was deeply thrilled with awe as he listened to the old crone's
wonderful words, which she mumbled to herself in a very peculiar and
extraordinary way, mingled with an incessant chuckling.
They came to the pillar which bears the Lion of
the Adriatic. The old woman was going on right past it, still
muttering to herself; but Antonio, feeling very uncomfortable at the
old crone's behaviour, and being, moreover, stared at in
astonishment by the passers-by, stopped and said roughly, "Here--sit
you down on these steps, old woman, and have done with your talk; it
will drive me mad. It is a fact that you saw my sequins in the fiery
images in the clouds; but, for that very reason, what do you mean by
prating about angels of light--bride-- maiden-widow--roses and
myrtle-leaves? Do you want to make a fool of me, you fearful woman,
till some insane attempt hurries me to destruction? You shall have a
new hood--bread--sequins--all that you want, but leave me alone."
And he was about to make off hastily; but the old woman caught him
by the mantle, and cried in a shrill piercing voice, "Tonino, my
Tonino, do take a good look at me for once, or else I must go to the
very edge of the Square yonder and in despair throw myself over into
the sea." In order to avoid attracting more eyes upon him than he
was already doing, Antonio actually stood still. "Tonino," went on
the old woman, "sit down here beside me; my heart is bursting, I
must tell you--Oh! do sit down here beside me." Antonio sat down on
the steps, but so as to turn his back upon her; and he took out his
account-book, whose white pages bore witness to the zeal with which
he did business on the Rialto.
The old woman now whispered very low, "Tonino,
when you look upon my shrivelled features, does there not dawn upon
your mind the slightest, faintest recollection of having known me
formerly a long, long time ago?" "I have already told you, old
woman," replied Antonio in the same low tones, and without turning
round, "I have already told you, that I feel drawn towards you in a
way that I can't explain to myself, but I don't attribute it to your
ugly shrivelled face. Nay, when I look at your strange black
glittering eyes and sharp nose, at your blue lips and long chin, and
bristly grey hair, and when I hear your abominable chuckling and
laughing, and your confused talk, I rather turn away from you with
disgust, and am even inclined to believe that you possess some
execrable power for attracting me to you." "O God! God! God!" whined
the old dame, a prey to unspeakable pain, "what fiendish spirit of
darkness has put such fearful thoughts into your head? O Tonino, my
darling Tonino, the woman who took such tender loving care of you
when a child, and who saved your life from the most threatening
danger on that awful night--it was I."
In the first moments of startled surprise Antonio
turned round as if shot; but then he fixed his eyes upon the old
woman's hideous face and cried angrily, "So that is the way you
think you are going to befool me, you abominable insane old crone!
The few recollections which I have retained of my childhood are
fresh and lively. That kind and pretty lady who tended me--Oh! I can
see her plainly now! She had a full bright face with some colour in
it--eyes gently smiling-beautiful dark- brown hair--dainty hands;
she could hardly be thirty years old, and you--you, an old woman of
ninety!" "O all ye saints of Heaven!" interrupted the old dame,
sobbing, "all ye blessed ones, what shall I do to make my Tonino
believe in me, his faithful Margaret?" "Margaret!" murmured Antonio,
"Margaret! That name falls upon my ears like music heard a long long
time ago, and for a long long time forgotten. But-- no, it is
impossible--impossible." Then the old dame went on more calmly,
dropping her eyes, and scribbling as it were with her staff on the
ground, "You are right; the tall handsome man who used to take you
in his arms and kiss you and give you sweets was your father,
Tonino; and the language in which we spoke to each other was the
beautiful sonorous German. Your father was a rich and influential
merchant in Augsburg. His young and lovely wife died in giving birth
to you. Then, since he could not settle down in the place where his
dearest lay buried, he came hither to Venice, and brought me, your
nurse, with him to take care of you. That terrible night an awful
fate overtook your father, and also threatened you. I succeeded in
saving you. A noble Venetian adopted you; I, deprived of all means
of support, had to remain in Venice.
"My father, a barber-surgeon, of whom it was said
that he practised forbidden science as well, had made me familiar
from my earliest childhood with the mysterious virtues of Nature's
remedies. By him I was taught to wander through the fields and
woods, learning the properties of many healing herbs, of many
insignificant mosses, the hours when they should be plucked and
gathered, and how to mix the juices of the various simples. But to
this knowledge there was added a very special gift, which Heaven has
endowed me with for some inscrutable purpose. I often see future
events as if in a dim and distant mirror; and almost without any
conscious effort of will, I declare in expressions which are
unintelligible to myself what I have seen; for some unknown Power
compels me, and I cannot resist it. Now when I had to stay behind in
Venice, deserted of all the world, I resolved to earn a livelihood
by means of my tried skill. In a brief time I cured the most
dangerous diseases. And furthermore, as my presence alone had a
beneficial effect upon my patients, and the soft stroking of my hand
often brought them past the crisis in a few minutes, my fame
necessarily soon spread through the town, and money came pouring in
in streams. This awakened the jealousy of the physicians, quacks who
sold their pills and essences in St. Mark's Square, on the Rialto,
and in the Mint, poisoning their patients instead of curing them.
They spread abroad that I was in league with the devil himself; and
they were believed by the superstitious folk. I was soon arrested
and brought before the ecclesiastical tribunal. O my Tonino, what
horrid tortures did they inflict upon me in order to force from me a
confession of the most damnable of all alliances! I remained firm.
My hair turned white; my body withered up to a mummy; my feet and
hands were paralysed. But there was still the terrible rack
left--the cunningest invention of the foul fiend,--and it extorted
from me a confession at which I shudder even now. I was to be burnt
alive; but when the earthquake shook the foundations of the palaces
and of the great prison, the door of the underground dungeon in
which I lay confined sprang open of itself, and I staggered up out
of my grave as it were through rubbish and ruins.21
O Tonino, you called me an old woman of ninety; I am hardly more
than fifty. This lean, emaciated body, this hideously distorted
face, this icicle-like hair, these lame feet--no, it was not the
lapse of years, it was only unspeakable tortures which could in a
few months change me thus from a strong woman into the monstrous
creature I now am. And my hideous chuckling and laughing--this was
forced from me by the last strain on the rack, at the memory of
which my hair even now stands on an end, and I feel altogether as if
I were locked in a red-hot coat of mail; and since that time I have
been constantly subject to it; it attacks me without my being able
to check it. So don't stand any longer in awe of me, Tonino, Oh! it
was indeed your heart which told you that as a little boy you lay on
my bosom." "Woman," said Antonio hoarsely, wrapped up in his own
thoughts, "woman, I feel as if I must believe you. But who was my
father? What was he called? What was the awful fate which overtook
him on that terrible night? Who was it who adopted me? And--what was
that occurrence in my life which now, like some potent magical spell
from a strange and unknown world, exercises an irresistible sway
over my soul, so that all my thoughts are dissipated into a dark
night-like sea, so to speak? When you tell me all this, you
mysterious woman, then I will believe you." "Tonino," replied the
old crone, sighing, "for your own sake I must keep silent; but the
time when I may speak will soon come. The Fontego--the Fontego--keep
away from the Fontego."
"Oh!" cried Antonio angrily, "you need not begin
to speak your dark sentences again to enchant me by some devilish
wile or other. My heart is rent, you must speak, or"---- "Stop,"
interrupted she, "no threats--am I not your faithful nurse, who
tended you?"---- Without waiting to hear what the old woman had got
further to say, he picked himself up and ran away swiftly. From a
distance he shouted to her, "You shall nevertheless have a new hood,
and as many sequins besides as you like."
It was in truth a remarkable spectacle, to see the
old Doge Marino Falieri and his youthful wife: he, strong enough and
robust enough in very truth, but with a grey beard, and innumerable
wrinkles in his rusty brown face, with some difficulty bearing his
head erect, forming a pathetic figure as he strode along; she, a
perfect picture of grace, with the pure gentleness of an angel in
her divinely beautiful face, an irresistible charm in her longing
glances, a queenly dignity enthroned upon her open lily-white brow,
shadowed by her dark locks, a sweet smile upon her cheeks and lips,
her pretty head bent with winsome submissiveness, her slender form
moving with ease, scarce seeming to touch the earth--a beautiful
lady in fact, a native of another and a higher world. Of course you
have seen angelic forms like this, conceived and painted by the old
masters. Such was Annunciata. How then could it be otherwise but
that every one who saw her was astonished and enraptured with her
beauty, and all the fiery youths of the Seignory were consumed with
passion, measuring the old Doge with mocking looks, and swearing in
their hearts that they would be the Mars to this Vulcan, let the
consequences be what they might? Annunciata soon found herself
surrounded with admirers, to whose flattering and seductive words
she listened quietly and graciously, without thinking anything in
particular about them. The conception which her pure angelic spirit
had formed of her relation to her aged and princely husband was that
she ought to honour him as her supreme lord, and cling to him with
all the unquestioning fidelity of a submissive handmaiden. He
treated her kindly, nay tenderly; he pressed her to his ice-cold
heart and called her his darling; he heaped up all the jewels he
could find upon her; what else could she wish for from him, what
other rights could she have upon him? In this way, therefore, it was
impossible for the thought of unfaithfulness to the old man ever in
any way to find lodgment in her mind; all that lay beyond the narrow
circle of these limited relations was to this good child an unknown
region, whose forbidden borders were wrapped in dark mists, unseen
and unsuspected by her. Hence all efforts to win her love were
fruitless.
But the flames of passion--of love for the
beautiful Dogess--burned in none so violently and so uncontrolled as
in Michele Steno. Notwithstanding his youth, he was invested with
the important and influential post of Member of the Council of
Forty. Relying upon this fact, as well as upon his personal beauty,
he felt confident of success. Old Marino Falieri he did not fear in
the least; and, indeed, the old man seemed to indulge less
frequently in his violent outbreaks of furious passion, and to have
laid aside his rugged untamable fierceness, since his marriage.
There he sat beside his beautiful Annunciata, spruce and prim, in
the richest, gayest apparel, smirking and smiling, challenging in
the sweet glances of his grey eyes,--from which a treacherous tear
stole from time to time,--those who were present to say if any one
of them could boast of such a wife as his. Instead of speaking in
the rough arrogant tone of voice in which he had formerly been in
the habit of expressing himself, he whispered, scarce moving his
lips, addressed every one in the most amiable manner, and granted
the most absurd petitions. Who would have recognised in this weak
amorous old man the same Falieri who had in a fit of passion
buffeted the bishop22
on Corpus Christi Day at Treviso, and who had defeated the valiant
Morbassan. This growing weakness spurred on Michele Steno to attempt
the most extravagant schemes. Annunciata did not understand why he
was constantly pursuing her with his looks and words; she had no
conception of his real purpose, but always preserved the same
gentle, calm, and friendly bearing towards him. It was just this
quiet unconscious behaviour, however, which drove him wild, which
drove him to despair almost. He determined to effect his end by
sinister means. He managed to involve Annunciata's most confidential
maid in a love intrigue, and she at last permitted him to visit her
at night. Thus he believed he had paved a way to Annunciata's
unpolluted chamber; but the Eternal Power willed that this
treacherous iniquity should recoil upon the head of its wicked
author.
One night it chanced that the Doge, who had just
received the ill tidings of the battle which Nicolo Pisani had lost
against Doria off Porto Longo,23
was unable to sleep owing to care and anxiety, and was rambling
through the passages of the Ducal Palace. Then he became aware of a
shadow stealing apparently out of Annunciata's apartments and
creeping towards the stairs. He at once rushed towards it; it was
Michele Steno leaving his mistress. A terrible thought flashed
across Falieri's mind; with the cry "Annunciata!" he threw himself
upon Steno with his drawn dagger in his hand. But Steno, who was
stronger and more agile than the old man, averted the thrust, and
knocked him down with a violent blow of his fist; then, laughing
loudly and shouting, "Annunciata! Annunciata!" he rushed downstairs.
The old man picked himself up and stole towards Annunciata's
apartments, his heart on fire with the torments of hell. All was
quiet, as still as the grave. He knocked; a strange maid opened the
door--not the one who was in the habit of sleeping near Annunciata's
chamber. "What does my princely husband command at this late and
unusual hour?" asked Annunciata in a calm and sweetly gentle tone,
for she had meanwhile thrown on a light night-robe and was now come
forward. Old Falieri stared at her speechless; then, raising both
hands above his head, he cried, "No, it is not possible, it is not
possible." "What is not possible, my princely sir?" asked
Annunciata, startled at the deep solemn tones of the old man's
voice. But Falieri, without answering her question, turned to the
maid, "Why are you sleeping here? why does
not Luigia sleep here as usual?" "Oh!" replied the little one,
"Luigia would make me exchange places with her to-night; she is
sleeping in the ante-room close by the stairs." "Close by the
stairs!" echoed Falieri, delighted; and he hurried away to the
ante-room. At his loud knocking Luigia opened the door; and when she
saw the Doge, her master's face inflamed with rage, and his flashing
eyes, she threw herself upon her bare knees and confessed her shame,
which was set beyond all doubt by a pair of elegant gentleman's
gloves lying on the easy-chair, whilst the sweet scent about them
betrayed their dandified owner. Hotly incensed at Steno's unheard-of
impudence, the Doge wrote to him next morning, forbidding him, on
pain of banishment from the town, to approach the Ducal Palace, or
the presence of the Doge and Dogess.
Michele Steno was wild with fury at the failure of
his well-planned scheme, and at the disgrace of being thus banished
from the presence of his idol. Now when he had to see from a
distance how gently and kindly the Dogess spoke to other young men
of the Seignory--that was indeed her natural manner--his envy and
the violence of his passion filled his mind with evil thoughts. The
Dogess had without doubt only scorned him because he had been
anticipated by others with better luck; and he had the hardihood to
utter his thoughts openly and publicly. Now whether it was that old
Falieri had tidings of this shameless talk, or whether he came to
look upon the occurrence of that memorable night as the warning
finger of destiny, or whether now, in spite of all his calmness and
equanimity, and his perfect confidence in the fidelity of his wife,
he saw clearly the danger of the unnatural position in which he
stood in respect to her--at any rate he became ill-tempered and
morose. He was plagued and tortured by all the fiends of jealousy,
and confined Annunciata to the inner apartments of the Ducal Palace,
so that no man ever set eyes upon her. Bodoeri took his niece's
part, and soundly rated old Falieri; but he would not hear of any
change in his conduct.
All this took place shortly before Holy Thursday.
On the occasion of the popular sports which take place on this day
in St. Mark's Square, it was customary for the Dogess to take her
seat beside the Doge, under a canopy erected on the balcony which
lies opposite to the Piazetti. Bodoeri reminded the Doge of this
custom, and told him that it would be very absurd, and sure to draw
down upon him the mocking laughter of both populace and Seignory,
if, in the teeth of custom and usage, he let his perverse jealousy
exclude Annunciata from this honour. "Do you think," replied old
Falieri, whose pride was immediately aroused, "do you think I am
such an idiotic old fool that I am afraid to show my most precious
jewel for fear of thievish hands, and that I could not prevent her
being stolen from me with my good sword? No, old man, you are
mistaken; to-morrow Annunciata shall go with me in solemn procession
across St. Mark's Square, that the people may see their Dogess, and
on Holy Thursday she shall receive the nosegay from the bold sailor
who comes sailing down out of the air to her." The Doge was thinking
of a very ancient custom as he said these words. On Holy Thursday a
bold fellow from amongst the people is drawn up from the sea to the
summit of the tower of St. Mark's, in a machine that resembles a
little ship and is suspended on ropes, then he shoots from the top
of the tower with the speed of an arrow down to the Square where the
Doge and Dogess are sitting, and presents a nosegay of flowers to
the Dogess, or to the Doge if he is alone.
The next day the Doge carried out his intention.
Annunciata had to don her most magnificent robes; and surrounded by
the Seignory and attended by pages and guards, she and Falieri
crossed the Square when it was swarming with people. They pushed and
squeezed themselves to death almost to see the beautiful Dogess; and
he who succeeded in setting eyes upon her thought he had taken a
peep into Paradise and had beheld the loveliest of the bright and
beautiful angels. But according to Venetian habits, in the midst of
the wildest outbreaks of their frantic admiration, here and there
were heard all sorts of satiric phrases and rhymes--and coarse
enough too--aimed at old Falieri and his young wife. Falieri,
however, appeared not to notice them, but strode along as
pathetically as possible at Annunciata's side, smirking and smiling
all over his face, and free on this occasion from all jealousy,
although he must have seen the glances full of burning passion which
were directed upon his beautiful lady from all sides. Arrived before
the principal entrance to the Palace, the guards had some difficulty
in driving back the crowd, so that the Doge and Dogess might go in;
but here and there were still standing isolated knots of
better-dressed citizens, who could not very well be refused entrance
into even the inner quadrangle of the Palace. Now it happened just
at the moment that the Dogess entered the quadrangle, that a young
man, who with a few others stood under the portico, fell down
suddenly upon the hard marble floor, as if dead, with the loud
scream, "O good God! good God!" The people ran together from every
side and surrounded the dead man, so that the Dogess could not see
him; yet, as the young man fell, she felt as if a red-hot knife were
suddenly thrust into her heart; she grew pale; she reeled, and was
only prevented from fainting by the smelling-bottles of the ladies
who hastened to her assistance. Old Falieri, greatly alarmed and put
out by the accident, wished the young man and his fit anywhere; and
he carried his Annunciata, who hung her pretty head on her bosom and
closed her eyes like a sick dove, himself up the steps into her own
apartments in the interior of the Palace, although it was very hard
work for him to do so.
Meanwhile the people, who had increased to crowds
in the inner quadrangle, had been spectators of a remarkable scene.
They were about to lift up the young man, whom they took to be quite
dead, and carry him away, when an ugly old beggar-woman, all in
rags, came limping up with a loud wail of grief; and punching their
sides and ribs with her sharp elbows she made a way for herself
through the thick of the crowd. When she at length saw the senseless
youth, she cried, "Let him be, fools; you stupid people, let him be;
he is not dead." Then she squatted down beside him; and taking his
head in her lap she gently rubbed and stroked his forehead, calling
him by the sweetest of names. As the people noted the old woman's
ugly apish face, and the repulsive play of its muscles, bending over
the young fellow's fine handsome face, his soft features now stiff
and pale as in death, when they saw her filthy rags fluttering about
over the rich clothing the young man wore, and her lean
brownish-yellow arms and long hands trembling upon his forehead and
exposed breast--they could not in truth resist shuddering with awe.
It looked as if it were the grinning form of death himself in whose
arms the young man lay. Hence the crowd standing round slipped away
quietly one after the other, till there were only a few left They,
when the young man opened his eyes with a deep sigh, took him up and
carried him, at the old woman's request, to the Grand Canal, where a
gondola took them both on board, the old woman and the youth, and
brought them to the house which she had indicated as his dwelling.
Need it be said that the young man was Antonio, and that the old
woman was the beggar of the steps of the Franciscan Church, who
wanted to make herself out to be his nurse?
When Antonio was quite recovered from his
stupefaction and perceived the old woman at his bed-side, and knew
that she had just been giving him some strengthening drops, he said
brokenly in a hoarse voice, bending a long gloomy melancholy gaze
upon her, "You with me, Margaret--that is
good; what more faithful nurse could I have found than you? Oh!
forgive me, mother, that I, a doltish, senseless boy, doubted for an
instant what you discovered to me. Yes, you are
the Margaret who reared me, who cared for
me and tended me; I knew it all the time, but some evil spirit
bewildered my thoughts. I have seen her; it is she--it is she. Did I
not tell you there was some mysterious magical power dwelling in me,
which exercised an uncontrollable supremacy over me? It has emerged
from its obscurity dazzling with light, to effect my destruction
through nameless joy. I now know all-- everything. Was not my
foster-father Bertuccio Nenolo, and did he not bring me up at his
country-seat near Treviso?" "Yes, yes," replied the old woman, "it
was indeed Bertuccio Nenolo, the great sea-captain, whom the sea
devoured as he was about to adorn his temples with the victor's
wreath." "Don't interrupt me," continued Antonio; "listen patiently
to what I have to say.
"With Bertuccio Nenolo I lived in clover. I wore
fine clothes; the table was always covered when I was hungry; and
after I had said my three prayers properly I was allowed to run
about the woods and fields just as I pleased. Close beside the villa
there was a little wood of sweet pines, cool and dark, and filled
with sweet scents and songs. There one evening, when the sun began
to sink, I threw me down beneath a big tree, tired with running and
jumping about, and stared up at the blue sky. Perhaps I was
stupefied by the fragrant smell of the flowering herbs in the midst
of which I lay; at any rate, my eyes closed involuntarily, and I
sank into a state of dreamy reverie, from which I was awakened by a
rustling, as if some one had struck a blow in the grass beside me. I
started up into a sitting posture; an angelic child with heavenly
eyes stood near me and looked down upon me, smiling most sweetly and
bewitchingly. 'O good boy,' she said, in a low soft voice, 'how
beautiful and calmly you sleep, and yet death, nasty death, was so
near to you.' Close beside my breast I saw a small black snake with
its head crushed; the little girl had killed the poisonous reptile
with a switch from a nut-tree, and just as it was wriggling on to my
destruction. Then a trembling of sweet awe fell upon me; I knew that
angels often came down from heaven above to rescue men in person
from the threatening attack of some evil enemy. I fell upon my knees
and raised my folded hands. 'Oh! you are surely an angel of light,
sent by God to save my life,' I cried. The pretty creature stretched
out both arms towards me and said softly, whilst a deeper flush
mantled upon her cheeks, 'No, good boy; I am not an angel, but a
girl--a child like you.' Then my feeling of awe gave place to a
nameless delight, which spread like a gentle warmth through all my
limbs. I rose to my feet; we clasped each other in our arms, our
lips met, and we were speechless, weeping, sobbing with sweet
unutterable sadness.
"Then a clear silvery voice cried through the
wood, 'Annunciata! Annunciata!' 'I must go now, darling boy, mother
is calling me,' whispered the little girl. My heart was rent with
unspeakable pain. 'Oh! I love you so much,' I sobbed, and the
scalding tears fell from the little girl's eyes upon my cheeks. 'I
am so--so fond of you, good boy,' she cried, pressing a last kiss
upon my lips. 'Annunciata,' the voice cried again; and the little
girl disappeared behind the bushes. Now that, Margaret, was the
moment when the mighty spark of love fell upon my soul, and it will
gather strength, and, enkindling flame after flame, will continue to
burn there for ever. A few days afterwards I was turned out of the
house.
"Father Bluenose told me, since I did not cease
talking about the lovely child who had appeared to me, and whose
sweet voice I thought I heard in the rustling of the trees, in the
gushing murmurs of the springs, and in the mysterious soughing of
the sea--yes, then Father Bluenose told me that the girl could be
none other than Nenolo's daughter Annunciata, who had come to the
villa with her mother Francesca, but had left it again on the
following day. O mother-- Margaret--help me. Heaven! This
Annunciata--is the Dogess." And Antonio buried his face in the
pillows, weeping and sobbing with unspeakable emotion.
"My dear Tonino," said the old woman, "rouse
yourself and be a man; come, do resist bravely this foolish emotion.
Come, come, how can you think of despairing when you are in love?
For whom does the golden flower of hope blossom if not for the
lover? You do not know in the evening what the morning may bring;
what you have beheld in your dreams comes to meet you in living
form. The castle that hovered in the air stands all at once on the
earth, a substantial and splendid building. See here, Tonino, you
are not paying the least heed to my words; but my little finger
tells me, and so does somebody else as well, that the bright
standard of love is gaily waving for you out at sea. Patience,
Tonino--patience, my boy!" Thus the old woman sought to comfort poor
Antonio; and her words did really sound like sweet music. He would
not let her leave him again. The beggar-woman had disappeared from
the steps of the Franciscan Church, and in her stead people saw
Signor Antonio's housekeeper, dressed in becoming matronly style,
limping about St. Mark's Square and buying the requisite provisions
for his table.
Holy Thursday was come. It was to be celebrated on
this occasion in more magnificent fashion than it had ever been
before. In the middle of the Piazzetta of St. Mark's a high staging
was erected for a special kind of artistic fire--something perfectly
new, which was to be exhibited by a Greek--a man experienced in such
matters. In the evening old Falieri came out on the balcony along
with his beautiful lady, reflecting his pride and happiness in the
magnificence of his surroundings, and with radiant eyes challenging
all who stood near to admire and wonder. As he was about to take his
seat on the chair of state he perceived Michele Steno actually on
the same balcony with him, and saw that he had chosen a position
whence he could keep his eyes constantly fixed upon the Dogess, and
must of necessity be observed by her. Completely overmastered by
furious rage, and wild with jealousy, Falieri shouted in a loud and
commanding tone that Steno was to be at once removed from the
balcony. Michele Steno raised his hand against Falieri, but that
same moment the guards appeared, and compelled him to quit his
place, which he did, foaming with rage and grinding his teeth, and
threatening revenge in the most horrible imprecations.
Meanwhile Antonio, utterly beside himself at sight
of his beloved Annunciata, had made his way out through the crowd,
and was striding backwards and forwards in the darkness of the night
alone along the edge of the sea, his heart rent by unutterable
anguish. He debated within himself whether it would not be better to
extinguish the consuming fire within him in the ice-cold waves than
to be slowly tortured to death by hopeless pain. But little was
wanting, and he had leapt into the sea; he was already standing on
the last step that goes down to the water, when a voice called to
him from a little boat, "Ay, a very good evening to you, Signor
Antonio." By the reflection cast by the illuminations of the Square,
he recognised that it was merry Pietro, one of his former comrades.
He was standing in the boat, his new cap adorned with feathers and
tinsel, and his new striped jacket gaily decorated with ribbons,
whilst he held in his hand a large and beautiful nosegay of
sweet-scented flowers. "Good evening, Pietro," shouted Antonio back,
"what grand folks are you going to row to-night that you are decked
off so fine?" "Oh!" replied Pietro, dancing till his boat rocked;
"see you, Signor Antonio, I am going to earn my three sequins
to-day; for I'm going to make the journey up to St. Mark's Tower and
then down again, to take this nosegay to the beautiful Dogess." "But
isn't that a risky and break-neck adventure, Pietro, my friend?"
asked Antonio. "Well," he replied, "there is some little chance of
breaking one's neck, especially as we go to-day right through the
middle of the artificial fire. The Greek says, to be sure, that he
has arranged everything so that the fire will not hurt a hair of
anybody's head, but"---- Pietro shrugged his shoulders.
Antonio stepped down to Pietro in the boat, and
now perceived that he stood close in front of the machine, which was
fastened to a rope coming out of the sea. Other ropes, by means of
which the machine was to be drawn up, were lost in the night. "Now
listen, Pietro," began Antonio, after a silent pause, "see here,
comrade, if you could earn ten sequins to-day without exposing your
life to danger, would it not be more agreeable to you?" "Why, of
course," and Pietro burst into a good hearty laugh. "Well then,"
continued Antonio, "take these ten sequins and change clothes with
me, and let me take your place, I will go up instead of you. Do, my
good friend and comrade, Pietro, let me go up." Pietro shook his
head dubiously, and weighing the money in his hand, said, "You are
very kind, Signor Antonio, to still call a poor devil like me your
comrade, and you are generous as well. The money I should certainly
like very much; but, on the other hand, to place this nosegay in our
beautiful Dogess's hand myself, to hear her sweet voice--and after
all that's really why I am ready to risk my life. Well, since it is
you, Signor Antonio, I close with your offer." They both hastily
changed their clothes; and hardly was Antonio dressed when Pietro
cried, "Quick, into the machine; the signal is given." At the same
moment the sea was lit up with the reflection of thousands of bright
flashes, and all the air along the margin of the sea rang with loud
reverberating thunders. Right through the midst of the hissing
crackling flames of the artificial fire, Antonio rose up into the
air with the speed of a hurricane, and shot down uninjured upon the
balcony, hovering in front of the Dogess. She had risen to her feet
and stepped forward; he felt her breath on his cheeks; he gave her
the nosegay. But in the unspeakable delirious delight of the moment
he was clasped as if in red-hot arms by the fiery pain of hopeless
love. Senseless, insane with longing, rapture, anguish, he grasped
her hand, and covered it with burning kisses, crying in the sharp
tone of despairing misery, "O Annunciata!" Then the machine, like a
blind instrument of fate, whisked him away from his beloved back to
the sea, where he sank down stunned, quite exhausted, into Pietro's
arms, who was waiting for him in the boat.
Meanwhile the Doge's balcony was the scene of
tumult and confusion. A small strip of paper had been found fastened
to the Doge's seat, containing in the common Venetian dialect the
words:
Il Dose Falier della bella muier,
I altri la gode é lui la mantien.
(The Doge Falieri, the husband of the beautiful
lady; others kiss her, and he--he keeps her.)
Old Falieri burst into a violent fit of passion,
and swore that the severest punishment should overtake the man who
had been guilty of this audacious offence. As he cast his eyes about
they fell upon Michele Steno standing beneath the balcony in the
Square, in the full light of the torches; he at once commanded his
guards to arrest him as the instigator of the outrage. This command
of the Doge's provoked a universal cry of dissent; in giving way to
his overmastering rage he was offering insult to both Seignory and
populace, violating the rights of the former, and spoiling the
latter's enjoyment of their holiday. The members of the Seignory
left their places; but old Marino Bodoeri mixed among the people,
actively representing the grave nature of the outrage that had been
done to the head of the state, and seeking to direct the popular
hatred upon Michele Steno. Nor had Falieri judged wrongly; for
Michele Steno, on being expelled from the Duke's balcony, had really
hurried off home, and there written the above-mentioned slanderous
words; then when all eyes were fixed upon the artificial fire, he
had fastened the strip of paper to the Doge's seat, and withdrawn
from the gallery again unobserved. He maliciously hoped it would be
a galling blow for them, for both the Doge and the Dogess, and that
the wound would rankle deeply--so deeply as to touch a vital part.
Willingly and openly he admitted the deed, and transferred all blame
to the Doge, since he had been the first to give umbrage to
him.
The Seignory had been for some time dissatisfied
with their chief, for instead of meeting the just expectations of
the state, he gave proofs daily that the fiery warlike courage in
his frozen and worn-out heart was merely like the artificial fire
which bursts with a furious rush out of the rocket-apparatus, but
immediately disappears in black lifeless flakes, and has
accomplished nothing. Moreover, since his union with his young and
beautiful wife (it had long before leaked out that he was married to
her directly after attaining to the Dogate) old Falieri's jealousy
no longer let him appear in the character of heroic captain, but
rather of vechio Pantalone (old fool);
hence it was that the Seignory, nursing their swelling resentment,
were more inclined to condone Michele Steno's fault, than to see
justice done to their deeply-wounded chief. The matter was referred
by the Council of Ten to the Forty, one of the leaders of which
Michele had formerly been. The verdict was that Michele Steno had
already suffered sufficiently, and a month's banishment was quite
punishment enough for the offence. This sentence only served to feed
anew and more fully old Falieri's bitterness against a Seignory
which, instead of protecting their own head, had the impudence to
punish insults that were offered to him as they would offences of
merely the most insignificant description.
As generally happens in the case of lovers, once a
single ray of the happiness of love has fallen upon them, they are
surrounded for days and weeks and months by a sort of golden veil,
and dream dreams of Paradise; and so Antonio could not recover
himself from the stupefying rapture of that happy moment; he could
hardly breathe for delirious sadness. He had been well scolded by
the old woman for running such a great risk; and she never ceased
mumbling and grumbling about exposure to unnecessary danger.
But one day she came hopping and dancing with her
staff in the strange way she had when apparently affected by some
foreign magical influence. Without heeding Antonio's words and
questions, she began to chuckle and laugh, and kindling a small fire
in the stove, she put a little pan on it, into which she poured
several ingredients from many various- coloured phials, and made a
salve, which she put into a little box; then she limped out of the
house again, chuckling and laughing. She did not return until late
at night, when she sat down in the easy-chair, panting and coughing
for breath; and after she had in a measure recovered from her great
exhaustion, she at length began, "Tonino, my boy Tonino, whom do you
think I have come from? See--try if you can guess. Whom do I come
from? where have I been?" Antonio looked at her, and a singular
instinctive feeling took possession of him. "Well now," chuckled the
old woman, "I have come from her--her herself, from the pretty dove,
lovely Annunciata." "Don't drive me mad, old woman!" shouted
Antonio. "What do you say?" continued she, "I am always thinking
about you, my Tonino.
"This morning, whilst I was haggling for some fine
fruit under the peristyle of the Palace, I heard the people talking
with bated breath of the accident that had befallen the beautiful
Dogess. I inquired again and again of several people, and at last a
big, uncultivated, red haired fellow, who stood leaning against a
column, yawning and chawing lemons, said to me, 'Oh well, a young
scorpion has been trying its little teeth on the little finger of
her left hand, and there's been a drop or two of blood shed--that's
all. My master, Signor Doctor Giovanni Basseggio, is now in the
palace, and he has, no doubt, before this cut off her pretty hand,
and the finger with it.' Just as the fellow was telling me this
there arose a great noise on the broad steps, and a little man--such
a tiny little man--came rolling down at our feet, screaming and
lamenting, for the guards had kicked him down as if he had been a
nine pin. The people gathered round him, laughing heartily; the
little man struggled and fought with his legs in the air without
being able to get up; but the red-haired fellow rushed forward,
snatched up the little doctor, tucked him under his arm, and ran off
with him as fast as his legs could carry him to the Canal, where he
got into a gondola with him and rowed away--the little doctor
screaming and yelling with all his might the whole time. I knew how
it was; just as Signor Basseggio was getting his knife ready to cut
off the pretty hand, the Doge had had him kicked down the steps. I
also thought of something else--quick--quick as you can--go home
make a salve--and then come back here to the Ducal Palace.
"And I stood on the great stairs with my bright
little phial in my hand. Old Falieri was just coming down; he darted
a glance at me, and, his choler rising, said, 'What does this old
woman want here?' Then I curtsied low--quite down to the ground--as
well as I could, and told him that I had a nice remedy which would
very soon cure the beautiful Dogess. When the old man heard that, he
fixed a terrible keen look upon me, and stroked his grey beard into
order; then he seized me by both shoulders and pushed me upstairs
and on into the chamber, where I nearly fell all my length. O
Tonino, there was the pretty child reclining on a couch, as pale as
death, sighing and moaning with pain and softly lamenting, 'Oh! I am
poisoned in every vein.' But I at once set to work and took off the
simple doctor's silly plaster. O just Heaven! her dear little
hand--all red as red--and swollen. Well, well, my salve cooled
it--soothed it. 'That does it good; yes, that does it good,' softly
whispered the sick darling. Then Marino cried quite delighted, 'You
shall have a thousand sequins, old woman, if you save me the
Dogess;' and therewith he left the room.
"For three hours I sat there, holding her little
hand in mine, stroking and attending to it. Then the darling woman
woke up out of the gentle slumber into which she had fallen, and no
longer felt any pain. After I had made a fresh poultice, she looked
at me with eyes brimming with gladness. Then I said, 'O most noble
lady, you once saved a boy's life when you killed the little snake
that was about to attack him as he slept.' O Tonino, you should have
seen the hot blood rush into her pale face, as if a ray of the
setting sun had fallen upon it--and how her eyes flashed with the
fire of joy. 'Oh! yes, old woman,' she said, 'oh! I was quite a
child then--it was at my father's country villa. Oh! he was a dear
pretty boy--I often think of him now. I don't think I have ever had
a single happy experience since that time.' Then I began to talk
about you, that you were in Venice, that your heart still beat with
the love and rapture of that moment, that, in order to gaze
once more in the heavenly eyes of the
angel who saved you, you had faced the risk of the dangerous aerial
voyage, that you it was who had given her the nosegay on Holy
Thursday. 'O Tonino, Tonino,' she cried in an ecstasy of delight, 'I
felt it, I felt it; when he pressed my hand to his lips, when he
named my name, I could not conceive why it went so strangely to my
heart; it was indeed pleasure, but pain as well. Bring him here,
bring him to me--the pretty boy.'" As the old woman said this
Antonio threw himself upon his knees and cried like one insane, "O
good God! pray let no dire fate overtake me now--now at least until
I have seen her, have pressed her to my heart." He wanted the old
woman to take him to the Palace the very next day; but she flatly
refused, since old Falieri was in the habit of paying visits to his
sick wife nearly every hour that came.
Several days went by; the old woman had completely
cured the Dogess; but as yet it had been quite impossible to take
Antonio to see her. The old woman soothed his impatience as well as
she could, always repeating that she was constantly talking to
beautiful Annunciata about the Antonio whose life she had saved, and
who loved her so passionately. Tormented by all the pangs of desire
and yearning love, Antonio spent his time in going about in his
gondola and restlessly traversing the squares. But his footsteps
involuntarily turned time after time in the direction of the Ducal
Palace. One day he saw Pietro standing on the bridge close to the
back part of the Palace, opposite the prisons, leaning on a
gay-coloured oar, whilst a gondola, fastened to one of the pillars,
was rocking on the Canal. Although small, it had a comfortable
little deck, was adorned with tasteful carvings, and even decorated
with the Venetian flag, so that it bore some resemblance to the
Bucentaur. As soon as Pietro saw his former comrade he shouted out
to him, "Hi! Signor Antonio, the best of good greetings to you; your
sequins have brought me good luck." Antonio asked somewhat absently
what sort of good luck he meant, and learned the important
intelligence that nearly every evening Pietro had to take the Doge
and Dogess in his gondola across to Giudecca, where the Doge had a
nice house not far from San Giorgio Maggiore. Antonio stared at
Pietro, and then burst out spasmodically, "Comrade, you may earn
another ten sequins and more if you like. Let me take your place; I
will row the Doge over." But Pietro informed him that he could not
think of doing so, for the Doge knew him and would not trust himself
with anybody else. At length when Antonio, his mind excited by all
the tortures of love, began to give way to unbridled anger, and
violently importune him, and to swear in an insane and ridiculous
fashion that he would leap after the gondola and drag it down under
the sea, Pietro replied laughing, "Why, Signor Antonio, Signor
Antonio, why, I declare you have quite lost yourself in the Dogess's
beautiful eyes." But he consented to allow Antonio to go with him as
his assistant in rowing; he would excuse it to old Falieri on the
ground of the weight of the boat, as well, as being himself a little
weak and unwell, and old Falieri did always think the gondola went
too slowly on this trip. Off Antonio ran, and he only just returned
to the bridge in time, dressed in coarse oarsman's clothing, his
face stained, and with a long moustache stuck above his lips, for
the Doge came down from the Palace with the Dogess, both attired
most splendidly and magnificently. "Who's that stranger fellow
there?" began the Doge angrily to Pietro; and it required all
Pietro's most solemn asseverations that he really required an
assistant, before the old man could be induced to allow Antonio to
help row the gondola.
It often happens that in the midst of the wildest
delirium of delight and rapture the soul, strengthened as it were by
the power of the moment, is able to impose fetters upon itself, and
to control the flames of passion which threaten to blaze out from
the heart. In a similar way Antonio, albeit he was close beside the
lovely Annunciata and the seam of her dress touched him, was able to
hide his consuming passion by maintaining a firm and powerful hold
upon his oar, and, whilst avoiding any greater risk, by only
glancing at her momentarily now and then. Old Falieri was all smirks
and smiles; he kissed and fondled beautiful Annunciata's little
white hands, and threw his arm around her slender waist. In the
middle of the channel, when St. Mark's Square and magnificent Venice
with all her proud towers and palaces lay extended before them, old
Falieri raised his head and said, gazing proudly about him, "Now, my
darling, is it not a grand thing to ride on the sea with the
lord--the husband of the sea? Yes, my darling, don't be jealous of
my bride, who is submissively bearing us on her broad bosom. Listen
to the gentle splashing of the wavelets; are they not words of love
which she is whispering to the husband who rules her? Yes, yes, my
darling, you indeed wear my ring on your finger, but she below
guards in the depths of her bosom the ring of betrothal which I
threw to her." "Oh! my princely Sir," began Annunciata, "oh! how can
this cold treacherous water be your bride? it quite makes me shiver
to think that you are married to this proud imperious element." Old
Falieri laughed till his chin and beard tottered and shook. "Don't
distress yourself, my pet," he said, "it's far better, of course, to
rest in your soft warm arms than in the ice-cold lap of my bride
below there; but it's a grand thing to ride on the sea with the lord
of the sea!" Just as the Doge was saying these words, the faint
strains of music at a distance came floating towards them. The notes
of a soft male voice, gliding along the waves of the sea, came
nearer and nearer; the words that were sung were--
Ah! senza amare,
Andare sul mare,
Col sposo del' mare
Non puo consolare.
Other voices took up the strain, and the same
words were repeated again and again in every-varying alternation,
until the song died away like the soft breath of the wind as it
were. Old Falieri appeared not to pay the slightest heed to the
song; on the contrary, he was relating to the Dogess with much
prolixity the meaning and history of the solemnity which takes place
on Ascension Day when the Doge throws his ring from the Bucentaur
and is married to the sea.
He spoke of the victories of the republic, and how
she had formerly conquered Istria and Dalmatia under the rule of
Peter Urseolus the Second,24
and how this ceremony had its origin in that conquest But if old
Falieri heeded not the song, so now his tales were lost upon the
Dogess. She sat with her mind completely wrapped up in the sweet
sounds which came floating along the sea. When the song came to an
end her eyes wore a strange far-off look, as if she were awakening
from a profound dream and striving to see and interpret the images
which sportively mocked her efforts to hold them fast. "Senza
amare, senza amare, non puo consolare," she whispered softly,
whilst the tears glistened like bright pearls in her heavenly eyes,
and sighs escaped her breast as it heaved and sank with the violence
of her emotions. Still smirking and smiling and talking away, the
old man, with the Dogess at his side, stepped out upon the balcony
of his house near San Giorgio Maggiore, without noticing that
Annunciata stood at his side like one in a dream, speechless, her
tearful eyes fixed upon some far- off land, whilst her heart was
agitated by feelings of a singular and mysterious character. A young
man in gondolier's costume blew a blast on a conch-shaped horn, till
the sounds echoed far away over the sea. At this signal another
gondola drew near. Meanwhile an attendant bearing a sunshade and a
maid had approached the Doge and Dogess; and thus attended they went
towards the palace. The second gondola came to shore, and from it
stepped forth Marino Bodoeri and several other persons, amongst whom
were merchants, artists, nay people out of the lowest classes of the
populace even; and they followed the Doge.
Antonio could hardly wait until the following
evening, since he hoped then to have the desired message from his
beloved Annunciata. At last-- at last the old woman came limping in,
dropped panting into the arm- chair, and clapped her thin bony hands
together again and again, crying. "Tonino, O Tonino! what in the
world has happened to our dear darling? When I went into her room,
there she lay on the couch with her eyes half closed, her pretty
head resting on her arm, neither slumbering nor awake, neither sick
nor well. I approached her: 'Oh! noble lady,' said I, 'what
misfortune has happened to you? Does your scarce-healed wound hurt
you still?' But she looked at me, oh! with such eyes, Antonio--I
have never seen anything like them. And directly I looked down into
the humid moonlight that was in them, they withdrew behind the dark
clouds of their silken lashes. Then sighing a sigh that came from
the depths of her heart, she turned her lovely pale face to the wall
and whispered softly--so softly, but oh! so sadly! that I was cut
right to the heart, 'Amare--amare--ah! senza
amare!' I fetched a little chair and sat down beside her, and
began to talk about you. She buried herself in the cushions; and her
breathing, coming quicker and quicker and quicker, turned to
sighing. I told her candidly that you had been in the gondola
disguised, and that I would now at once without delay take you, who
were dying of love and longing, to see her. Then she suddenly
started up from the cushions, and whilst the scalding tears streamed
down her cheeks, she exclaimed vehemently, 'For God's sake! By all
the Holy Saints! no--no--I cannot see him, old woman. I conjure you,
tell him he is never--never again to come near me--never. Tell him
he is to leave Venice, to go away at once!' 'So then you will let my
poor Antonio die?' I interposed. Then she sank back upon the
cushions, apparently smarting from the most unutterable anguish, and
her voice was almost choked with tears as she sobbed out, 'Shall not
I also die the bitterest of deaths?' At this point old Falieri
entered the room, and at a sign from him I had to withdraw." "She
has rejected me--away--away into the sea!" cried Antonio, giving way
to utter despair. The old woman chuckled and laughed in her usual
way, and went on, "You simple child! you simple child! don't you see
that lovely Annunciata loves you with all the intensity, with all
the agonised love of which a woman's heart is capable? You simple
boy! Late to-morrow evening slip into the Ducal Palace; you will
find me in the second gallery on the right from the great staircase,
and then we will see what's to be done."
The following evening as Antonio, trembling with
expectant happiness, stole up the great staircase, his conscience
suddenly smote him, as though he were about to commit some great
crime. He was so dazed, and he trembled and shook so, that he was
scarcely able to climb the stairs. He had to stop and rest by
leaning himself against a column immediately in front of the gallery
that had been indicated to him. All at once he was plunged in the
midst of a bright glare of torches, and before he could move from
the place old Bodoeri stood in front of him, accompanied by some
servants, who bore the torches. Bodoeri fixed his eyes upon the
young man, and then said, "Ha! you are Antonio; you have been
assigned this post, I know; come, follow me." Antonio, convinced
that his proposed interview with the Dogess was betrayed, followed,
not without trembling. But imagine his astonishment when, on
entering a remote room, Bodoeri embraced him and spoke of the
importance of the post that had been assigned to him, and which he
would have to maintain with courage and firm resolution that very
night. But his amazement increased to anxious fear and dismay when
he learned that a conspiracy had been long ripening against the
Seignory, and that at the head of it was the Doge himself. And this
was the night in which, agreeably to the resolutions come to in
Falieri's house on Giudecca, the Seignory was to fall and old Marino
Falieri was to be proclaimed sovereign Duke of Venice.
Antonio stared at Bodoeri without uttering a word;
Bodoeri interpreted the young man's silence as a refusal to take
part in the execution of the formidable conspiracy, and he cried
incensed, "You cowardly fool! You shall not leave this palace again;
you shall either take up arms on our side or die--but talk to this
man first" A tall and noble figure stepped forward from the dark
background of the apartment. As soon as Antonio saw the man's face,
which he could not do until he came into the light of the torches,
and recognised it, he threw himself upon his knees and cried,
completely losing his presence of mind at seeing him whom he never
dreamt of seeing again, "O good God! my father, Bertuccio Nenolo! my
dear foster-parent." Nenolo raised the young man up, clasped him in
his arms, and said in a gentle voice, "Aye, of a verity I am
Bertuccio Nenolo, whom you perhaps thought lay buried at the bottom
of the sea, but I have only quite recently escaped from my shameful
captivity at the hands of the savage Morbassan. Yes, I am the
Bertuccio Nanolo who adopted you. And I never for a moment dreamt
that the stupid servants whom Bodoeri sent to take possession of the
villa, which he had bought of me, would turn you out of the house.
You infatuated youth! Do you hesitate to take up arms against a
despotic caste whose cruelty robbed you of a father? Ay! go down to
the quadrangle of the Fontego, and the stains which you will there
see on the stone pavements are the stains of your father's blood.
The Seignory when making over to the German merchants the
dépôt and exchange which you know under
the name of the Fontego, forbade all those who had offices assigned
to them to take the keys with them when they went away; they were to
leave them with the official in charge of the Fontego. Your father
acted contrary to this law, and had therefore incurred a heavy
penalty. But now when the offices were opened on your father's
return, there was found amongst his wares a chest of false Venetian
coins. He vainly protested his innocence; it was only too evident
that some malicious fiend, perhaps the official in charge himself,
had smuggled in the chest in order to ruin your father. The
inexorable judges, satisfied that the chest had been found in your
father's offices, condemned him to death. He was executed in the
quadrangle of the Fontego; nor would you now be living if faithful
Margaret had not saved you. I, your father's truest friend, adopted
you; and in order that you might not betray yourself to the
Seignory, you were not told what was your father's name. But now--
now, Anthony Dalbirger,--now is the time--now, to seize your arms
and revenge upon the heads of the Seignory your father's shameful
death."
Antonio, fired by the spirit of vengeance, swore
to be true to the conspirators and to act with invincible courage.
It is well known that it was the affront put upon Bertuccio Nenolo
by Dandulo when he was appointed to superintend the naval
preparations, and on the occasion of a quarrel struck Nenolo in the
face, that induced him to join with his ambitious son-in-law in his
conspiracy against the Seignory. Both Nenolo and Bodoeri were
desirous for old Falieri to assume the princely mantle in order that
they might themselves rise along with him. The conspirators' plan
was to spread abroad the news that the Genoese fleet lay before the
Lagune. Then when night came the great bell in St. Mark's Tower was
to be rung, and the town summoned to arms, under the false pretext
of defence. This was to be the signal for the conspirators, whose
numbers were considerable, and who were scattered throughout all
Venice, to occupy St. Mark's Square, make themselves masters of the
remaining principal squares of the town, murder the leading men of
the Seignory, and proclaim the Doge sovereign Duke of Venice.
But it was not the will of Heaven that this
murderous scheme should succeed, nor that the fundamental
constitution of the harassed state should be trampled in the dust by
old Falieri--a man inflamed with pride and haughtiness. The meetings
in Falieri's house on Giudecca had not escaped the watchfulness of
the Ten; but they failed altogether to learn any reliable
intelligence. But the conscience of one of the conspirators, a
fur-merchant of Pisa, Bentian by name, pricked him; he resolved to
save from destruction his friend and gossip, Nicolas Leoni, a member
of the Council of Ten. When twilight came on, he went to him and
besought him not to leave his house during the night, no matter what
occurred. Leoni's suspicion was aroused; he detained the
fur-merchant, and on pressing him closely learned the whole scheme.
In conjunction with Giovanni Gradenigo and Marco Cornaro he called
the Council of Ten together in St. Salvador's (church); and there,
in less than three hours, measures were taken calculated to stifle
all the efforts of the conspirators on the first sign of movement.
Antonio's commission was to take a body of men and
go to St. Mark's Tower, and see that the bell was tolled. Arrived
there, he found the tower occupied by a large force of Arsenal
troops, who, on his attempting to approach, charged upon him with
their halberds. His own band, seized with a sudden panic, scattered
like chaff; and he himself slipped away in the darkness of the
night. But he heard the footsteps of a man following close at his
heels; he felt him lay hands upon him, and he was just on the point
of cutting his pursuer down when by means of a sudden flash of light
he recognised Pietro. "Save yourself," cried he, "save yourself,
Antonio,--here in my gondola. All is betrayed. Bodoeri--Nenolo--are
in the power of the Seignory; the doors of the Ducal Palace are
closed; the Doge is confined a prisoner in his own
apartment--watched like a criminal by his own faithless guards. Come
along--make haste--get away." Almost stupefied, Antonio suffered
himself to be dragged into the gondola. Muffled voices--the clash of
weapons--single cries for help--then with the deepest blackness of
the night there followed a breathless awful silence. Next morning
the populace, stricken with terror, beheld a fearful sight; it made
every man's blood run cold in his veins. The Council of the Ten had
that very same night passed sentence of death upon the leaders of
the conspiracy who had been seized. They were strangled, and
suspended from the balcony at the side of the Palace overlooking the
Piazzetta, the one whence the Doge was in the habit of witnessing
all ceremonies,--and where, alas! Antonio had hovered in the air
before the lovely Annunciata, and where she had received from him
the nosegay of flowers. Amongst the corpses were those of Marino
Bodoeri and Bertuccio Nenolo. Two days later old Marino Falieri was
sentenced to death by the Council of Ten, and executed on the
so-called Giant Stairs of the Palace.
Antonio wandered about unconsciously, like a man
in a dream; no one laid hands upon him, for no one recognised him as
having been of the number of the conspirators. On seeing old
Falieri's grey head fall, he started up, as it were, out of his
death-like trance. With a most unearthly scream--with the shout,
"Annunciata!" he rushed storming in the Palace, and along the
passages. Nobody stopped him; the guards, as if stupefied by the
terrible thing that had just taken place, only stared after him. The
old crone came to meet him, loudly lamenting and complaining; she
seized his hand and--a few steps more, and along with her he entered
Annunciata's room. There she lay, poor thing, on the couch, as if
already dead. Antonio rushed towards her and covered her hands with
burning kisses, calling her by the sweetest and tenderest names.
Then she slowly opened her lovely heavenly eyes
and saw Antonio; at first, however, it appeared as if it cost her an
effort to call him to mind; but speedily she raised herself up,
threw both her arms around his neck, and drew him to her bosom,
showering down her hot tears upon him and kissing his cheeks--his
lips. "Antonio--my Antonio--I love you, oh! more than I can tell
you--yes, yes, there is a heaven on earth.
What are my father's and my uncle's and my husband's death in
comparison with the blissful joy of your love? Oh! let us flee--flee
from this scene of blood and murder." Thus spake Annunciata, her
heart rent by the bitterest anguish, as well as by the most
passionate love. Amid thousands of kisses and never-ending tears,
the two lovers mutually swore eternal fidelity; and, forgetting the
fearful events of the terrible day that was past, they turned their
eyes from the earth and looked up into the heaven which the spirit
of love had unfolded to their view. The old woman advised them to
flee to Chiozza; thence Antonio intended to travel in an opposite
direction by land towards his own native country.
His friend, Pietro, procured him a small boat and
had it brought to the bridge behind the Palace. When night came,
Annunciata, enveloped in a thick shawl, crept stealthily down the
steps with her lover, attended by old Margaret, who bore some
valuable jewel caskets in her hood. They reached the bridge
unobserved, and unobserved they embarked in their small craft.
Antonio seized the oar, and away they went at a quick and vigorous
rate. The bright moonlight danced along the waves in front of them
like a gladsome messenger of love. They reached the open sea. Then
began a peculiar whistling and howling of the wind far above their
heads; black shadows came trooping up and hung themselves like a
dark veil over the bright face of the moon. The dancing moonshine,
the gladsome messenger of love, sank in the black depths of the sea
amongst its muttering thunders. The storm came on and drove the
black piled-up masses of clouds in front of it with wrathful
violence. Up and down tossed the boat. "O help us! God, help us!"
screamed the old woman. Antonio, no longer master of the oar,
clasped his darling Annunciata in his arms, whilst she, aroused by
his fiery kisses, strained him to her bosom in the intensity of her
rapturous affection. "O my Antonio!"--"O my Annunciata!" they
whispered, heedless of the storm which raged and blustered ever more
furiously. Then the sea, the jealous widow of the beheaded Doge
Falieri, stretched up her foaming waves as if they were giant arms,
and seized upon the lovers, and dragged them, along with the old
woman, down, down into her fathomless depths.
As soon as the man in the mantle had thus
concluded his narrative, he jumped up quickly and left the room with
strong rapid strides. The friends followed him with their eyes,
silently and very much astonished; then they went to take another
look at the picture. The old Doge again looked down upon them with a
smirk, in his ridiculous finery and foppish vanity; but when they
carefully looked into the Dogess's face they perceived quite plainly
that the shadow of some unknown pain--a pain of which she only had a
foreboding--was throned upon her lily brow, and that dreamy
aspirations of love gleamed from behind her dark lashes, and hovered
around her sweet lips. The Hostile Power seemed to be threatening
death and destruction from out the distant sea and the vaporous
clouds which enshrouded St. Mark's. They now had a clear conception
of the deeper significance of the charming picture; but so often as
they looked upon it again, all the sympathetic sorrow which they had
felt at the history of Antonio and Annunciata's love returned upon
them and filled the deepest recesses of their souls with its
pleasurable awe.
FOOTNOTES TO "THE DOGE AND DOGESS."
Footnote
1 Written for
the Taschenbuch der Liebe und Freundschaft
gewidmet, 1819; edited by S. Schütze, Frankfort-on-Main.]
Footnote
2 C W. Kolbe,
junr., historical and genre painter, was born in 1781 and died in
1853.]
Footnote
3 The story
Turandot has a history. Its prototype is
in the Persian poet Nizámí (1141-1203). From Gozzi it was translated
into German by Werthes; and it was from his translation that
Schiller worked up his play in November and December, 1801. The
proud Turandot, daughter of the Emperor of China, entertains such
loathing of marriage that she rejects all suitors, until on her
father's threatening to compel her to wed, she institutes a kind of
version of the caskets in the Merchant of
Venice. Any prince may woo for her, but in a peculiar way. He
must solve three riddles in the full assembly of the court. If he
succeeds, he wins the princess; if he does not succeed, he loses his
own head. In Gozzi the three riddles are about the Year, the Sun,
and (extremely inapposite to the circumstances) the Lion of the
Adriatic. The two last Schiller replaced by riddles about the Eye
and the Plough.]
Footnote
4 Calaf, Prince
of Astrakhan, successfully solves the riddles and wins the Princess
Turandot.]
Footnote
5 The story of
this Doge's conspiracy has furnished materials for a tragedy to
Byron (1821), Casimir Delavinge (1829), and Albert Lindner (1875). A
translation of the story is given by Mr. F. Cohen (Sir F. Palgrave)
from Sanuto's Chronicle, in the Appendix
to the play in Byron's works.]
Footnote
6 Paganino
Dona, one of the greatest of Genoese admirals, took and burnt
Parenzo, a town on the west coast of Istria, on the 11th of August,
1354. At this period the rivalry between the two republics, Venice
and Genoa, in their commercial relations with the East and in the
Black Sea, was especially bitter, and they were almost constantly at
war with each other.]
Footnote
7 Andrea
Dandolo (1307-1354), Doge from 1343 to 1354. During his reign Venice
actively extended her commercial conquests in the Black Sea and the
countries around the Levant, engaged part of the time in active
hostilities with the Genoese.]
Footnote
8 The sequin
was a gold coin of Venice and Tuscany, worth about 9s. 3d. It is
sometimes used as equivalent to ducat (Note, page 63, Vol. i.)
Footnote
9 Pope Innocent
VI., Pope at Avignon, from 1352 to 1362.]
Footnote
10 Hoffmann
states that he derived his materials for this story from Le Bret's
"History of Venice,"--a book which, unfortunately, up to the time of
going to press, the translator had not been able to obtain.]
Footnote
11 Nicolo
Pisani, a very active naval commander in the third war with Genoa
(1350-1355), fought battles in the Bosphorus, off Sardinia, and at
Porto Longo, near Modon (Greece).]
Footnote
12 Sardinia
was for many, many years an object of contention between Pisa,
Genoa, and the Aragonese. At this time (1354) it belonged to the
latter, but the Genoese were constantly endeavouring to stir up the
people of the island to revolt against the Aragonese; hence we may
see reason for Pisani's being in Sardinian waters.]
Footnote
13 Equivalent
to "Governor," Chioggia was an old town thirty miles south of
Venice, at the southern extremity of the Lagune. Chiozza =
Chioggia.]
Footnote
14 The state
barge of Venice; the word means "little golden boat." Pope Alexander
III. bestowed upon the Doge Sebastian Ziani, for his victory over
Frederick Barbarossa near Parenzo on Ascension Day, 1177, a ring in
token of the suzerainty of Venice over the Adriatic. From this time
dates the observance of the annual ceremony of the Doge's marrying
the Adriatic from the Bucentaur.]
Footnote
15 San
Giorgio Maggiore. Venice, as everybody knows, is not built upon the
mainland but upon islands. The two largest, whose greatest length is
from east to west, are divided by the Grand Canal, upon which axe
situated most of the palaces and important public buildings. South
of these two principal islands, and separated from them by the
Giudecca Canal, are the islands of Giudecca and San Giorgio Maggiore
close together, the latter on the east and opposite the south
entrance to the Grand Canal, beyond which are the Piazetta and St.
Mark's Square.]
Footnote
16 This is
larger than the gondola, and also more modern; it is calculated to
hold six persons, and even luggage.]
Footnote
17 The
Fondaco de' Tedeschi, erected in 1506, on the Grand Canal. It was
formerly decorated externally with paintings by Titian and his
pupils. At first it served as dépôt for
the wares of German merchants (whence its name), but is now used as
a custom-house.]
Footnote
18 Louis I.
the Great of Hungary (1342-1382). The Dalmatian and Istrian
sea-board formed a fruitful source of contention between the
Venetians and Hungary, Louis proving a very formidable opponent to
the Republic.]
Footnote
19 At this
epoch Venice was the mart and mediatory between the West and the
East, the commercial riches of the latter having been opened up to
the feudal civilisation of Europe, chiefly through the Crusades.
Hence the cosmopolitan character of the merchants on the Rialto.]
Footnote
20 In the
year 1348, Venice was visited by an earthquake, and this was
followed by the plague (the Black Death). In order to complete the
roll of the republic's misfortunes in this gloomy year, it may be
added that she also lost almost the whole of her Black Sea fleet to
the Genoese.]
Footnote
21 It may
perhaps be interesting to observe that a precisely similar
occurrence forms the central feature in H. v. Kleist's "Erdbeben in
Chili" (1810), perhaps one of the best of his short stories.]
Footnote
22 Narrated
in the translation of the Chronicle of Sanuto by Sir Francis
Palgrave in Byron's notes to "Marino Faliero."]
Footnote
23 On the
island of Sapenzia, south-west of the Morea.]
Footnote
24 Pietro
Urseolo I. was Doge from 991 to 1009; Dalmatia was subdued in 997.]
Pin-Up Weird Tales
Well may your heart swell in presentient sadness,
indulgent reader, when your footsteps wander through places where
the splendid monuments of Old German Art speak, like eloquent
tongues, of the magnificence, good steady industry, and sterling
honesty of an illustrious age now long since passed away. Do you not
feel as if you were entering a deserted house? The Holy Book in
which the head of the household read is still lying open on the
table, and the gay rich tapestry that the mistress of the house spun
with her own hands is still hanging on the walls; whilst round about
in the bright clean cupboards are ranged all kinds of valuable works
of art, gifts received on festive occasions. You could almost
believe a member of the household will soon enter and receive you
with genuine hearty hospitality. But you will wait in vain for those
whom the eternally revolving wheel of Time has whirled away; you may
therefore surrender yourself to the sweet dream in which the old
Masters rise up before you and speak honest and weighty words that
sink deeply into your heart Then for the first time will you be able
to grasp the profound significance of their works, for you will then
not only live in, but you will also understand the age which could
produce such masters and such works. But, alas! does it not happen
that, as you stretch out your loving arms to clasp the beautiful
image of your dream, it shyly flees away on the light morning clouds
before the noisy bustle of the day, whilst you, your eyes filling
with scalding tears, gaze after the bright vision as it gradually
disappears? And so, rudely disturbed by the life that is pulsing
about you, you are suddenly wakened out of your pleasant dream,
retaining only the passionate longing that thrills your breast with
its delicious awe.
Such sentiments as these, indulgent reader, have
always animated the breast of him who is about to pen these pages
for you, whenever his path has led him through the world-renowned
city of Nuremberg. Now lingering before that wonderful structure,
the fountain2
in the market-place, now contemplating St. Sebald's shrine,3
and the ciborium4
in St. Lawrence's Church, and Albert Dürer's5
grand pictures in the castle and in the town-house, he used to give
himself up entirely to the delicious reveries which transported him
into the midst of all the glorious splendours of the old Imperial
Town. He thought of the true-hearted words of Father Rosenblüth6--
O Nuremberg, thou glorious spot,
Thy honour's bolt was aimed aright,
Sticks in the mark whereat wisdom shot;
And truth in thee hath come to light.
Many a picture of the life of the worthy citizens
of that period, when art and manual industry went loyally and
industriously hand in hand, rose up brightly before his mind's eye,
impressing itself upon his soul in especially cheerful and pleasing
colours. Graciously be pleased, therefore, that he put one of these
pictures before you. Perhaps, as you gaze upon it, it may afford you
gratification, perhaps it may draw from you a good-natured smile,
perhaps you may even come to feel yourself at home in Master
Martin's house, and may linger willingly amongst his casks and tubs.
Well!--Then the writer of these pages will have effected what is the
sincere and honest wish of his heart.
How Master Martin was elected
"Candle-master" and how
he returned thanks therefor.
On the 1st of May, 1580, in accordance with
traditionary custom and usage, the honourable guild of coopers, or
wine-cask makers, of the free Imperial Town of Nuremberg, held with
all due ceremony a meeting of their craft. A short time previously
one of the presidents, or "Candle-masters," as they were called, had
been carried to his grave; it was therefore necessary to elect a
successor. Choice fell upon Master Martin. And in truth there was
scarcely another who could be measured against him in the building
of strong and well-made casks; none understood so well as he the
management of wine in the cellar;7
hence he counted amongst his customers very many men of distinction,
and lived in the most prosperous circumstances--nay, almost rolled
in riches. Accordingly, after Martin had been elected, the worthy
Councillor Jacobus Paumgartner, who, in his official character of
syndic,8
presided over the meeting, said, "You have done bravely well,
friends, to choose Master Martin as your president, for the office
could not be in better hands. He is held in high esteem by all who
know him, not only on account of his great skill, but on account of
his ripe experience in the art of keeping and managing the rich
juice of the grape. His steady industry and upright life, in spite
of all the wealth he has amassed, may serve as an example to you
all. Welcome then a thousand times, goodman Master Martin, as our
honoured president."
With these words Paumgartner rose to his feet and
took a few steps forward, with open arms, expecting that Martin
would come to meet him. The latter immediately placed both his hands
upon the arms of his chair and raised himself as expeditiously as
his portly person would permit him to rise,--which was only slowly
and heavily. Then just as slowly he strode into Paumgartner's hearty
embrace, which, however, he scarcely returned. "Well," said
Paumgartner, somewhat nettled at this, "well, Master Martin, are you
not altogether well pleased that we have elected you to be our
'Candle-master'?" Master Martin, as was his wont, threw his head
back into his neck, played with his fingers upon his capacious
belly, and, opening his eyes wide and thrusting forward his
under-lip with an air of superior astuteness, let his eyes sweep
round the assembly. Then, turning to Paumgartner, he began, "Marry,
my good and worthy sir, why should I not be altogether well pleased,
seeing that I receive what is my due? Who refuses to take the reward
of his honest labour? Who turns away from his threshold the
defaulting debtor when at length he comes to pay his long standing
debt? What! my good sirs," and Martin turned to the masters who sat
around, "what! my good sirs, has it then occurred to you at last
that I--I must be president of our
honourable guild? What do you look for in your president? That he be
the most skilful in workmanship? Go look at my two-tun cask made
without fire,9
my brave masterpiece, and then come and tell me if there's one
amongst you dare boast that, so far as concerns thoroughness and
finish, he has ever turned out anything like it. Do you desire that
your president possess money and goods? Come to my house and I will
throw open chests and drawers, and you shall feast your eyes on the
glitter of the sparkling gold and silver. Will you have a president
who is respected by noble and base-born alike? Only ask our honoured
gentlemen of the Council, ask the princes and noblemen around our
good town of Nuremberg, ask his Lordship, the Bishop of Bamberg, ask
what they all think of Master Martin? Oh! I--I don't think you'll
hear much said against him." At the same time Master Martin struck
his big fat belly with the greatest self-satisfaction, smiling with
his eyes half-closed. Then, as all remained silent, nothing being
heard except a dubious clearing of the throat here and there, he
continued, "Ay! ay! I see. I ought, I know very well, to thank you
all handsomely that in this election the good Lord above has at last
seen fit to enlighten your minds. Well, when I receive the price of
my labour, when my debtor repays me the borrowed money, I write at
the bottom of the bill or of the receipt my 'Paid with thanks,
Thomas10
Martin, Master-cooper here.' Let me then thank you all from my
heart, since in electing me to be your president and 'Candle-master'
you have wiped out an old debt. As for the rest, I pledge you that I
will discharge the duties of my office with all fidelity and
uprightness. In the hour of need I will stand by the guild and by
each of you to the very best of my abilities with word and deed. I
will exert the utmost diligence to uphold the honour and fame of our
celebrated handicraft, without bating one jot of its present credit.
My honoured syndic, and all you, my good friends and masters, I
invite to come and partake of good cheer with me on the coming
Sunday. Then, with blithesome hearts and minds, let us deliberate
over a glass of good Hochheimer11]
or Johannisberger,12
or any other choice wine in my cellar that your palates may crave,
what can be done for the furtherance of our common weal. Once again,
I say you shall be all heartily welcome."
The honest masters' countenances, which had
perceptibly clouded on hearing Master Martin's proud words, now
recovered their serenity, whilst the previous dead silence was
followed by the cheerful buzz of conversation, in which a good deal
was said about Master Martin's great deserts, and also about his
choice cellar. All promised to be present on the Sunday, and offered
their hands to the newly-elected "Candle- master," who took them and
shook them warmly, also drawing a few of the masters a little
towards him, as if desirous of embracing them. The company separated
in blithe good-humour.
What afterwards took place in
Master Martin's house.
Now it happened that Councillor Jacobus
Paumgartner had to pass by Master Martin's in order to reach his own
home; and as they both stood outside Master Martin's door, and
Paumgartner was about to proceed on his way, his friend, doffing his
low bonnet, and bowing respectfully and as low as he was able, said
to him, "I should be very glad, my good and worthy sir, if you would
not disdain to step in and spend an hour or so in my humble house.
Be pleased to suffer me to derive both profit and entertainment from
your wise conversation." "Ay, ay! Master Martin, my friend," replied
Paumgartner smiling, "gladly enough will I stay a while with you;
but why do you call your house a humble house? I know very well that
there's none of the richest of our citizens who can excel you in
jewels and valuable furniture. Did you not a short time ago complete
a handsome building which makes your house one of the ornaments of
our renowned Imperial Town?13
In respect of its interior fittings I say nothing, for no patrician
even need be ashamed of it."
Old Paumgartner was right; for on opening the
door, which was brightly polished and richly ornamented with
brass-work, they stepped into a spacious entrance hall almost
resembling a state-room; the floor was tastefully inlaid, fine
pictures hung on the walls, and the cupboards and chairs were all
artistically carved. And all who came in willingly obeyed the
direction inscribed in verses, according to olden custom, on a
tablet which hung near the door:--
Let him who will the stairs ascend
See that his shoes be rubbed well clean.
Or taken off were better, I ween;
He thus avoids what might offend.
A thoughtful man is well aware
How he indoors himself should bear.
It had been a hot day, and now as the hour of
twilight was approached it began to be close and stuffy in the
rooms, so Master Martin led his eminent guest into the cool and
spacious parlour-kitchen. For this was the name applied at that time
to a place in the houses of the rich citizens which, although
furnished as a kitchen, was never used as such--all kinds of
valuable utensils and other necessaries of housekeeping being there
set out on show. Hardly had they got inside the door when Master
Martin shouted in a loud voice, "Rose, Rose!" Then the door was
immediately opened, and Rose, Master Martin's only daughter, came
in.
I should like you, dear reader, to awaken at this
moment a vivid recollection of our great Albrecht Dürer's
masterpieces; I would wish that the glorious maidens whom we find in
them, with all their noble grace, their sweet gentleness and piety,
should recur to your mind, endowed with living form. Recall the
noble and delicate figure, the beautifully arched, lily-white
forehead, the carnation flitting like a breath of roses across the
cheek, the full sweet cherry-red lips,-- recall the eyes full of
pious aspirations, half-veiled by their dark lashes, like moonlight
seen through dusky foliage,--recall the silky hair, artfully
gathered into graceful plaits,--recall the divine beauty of these
maidens, and you will see lovely Rose. How else than in this way
could the narrator sketch the dear, darling child? And yet permit me
to remind you here of an admirable young artist into whose heart a
quickening ray has fallen from these beautiful old times. I mean the
German painter Cornelius,14
in Rome. Just as Margaret looks in Cornelius's drawings to Goethe's
mighty Faust when she utters the words,
"Bin weder Fräulein noch schön"15
(I am neither a lady of rank, nor yet beautiful), so also may Rose
have looked when in the shyness of her pure chaste heart she felt
compelled to shun addresses that smacked somewhat too much of
freedom.
Rose bowed low with child-like respect before
Paumgartner, and taking his hand, pressed it to her lips. The
crimson colour rushed into the old gentleman's pale cheeks, as the
sun when setting shoots up a dying flash, suddenly converting the
dark foliage into gold, so the fire of a youth now left far behind
gleamed once more in his eyes. "Ay! ay!" he cried in a blithesome
voice, "marry, my good friend Master Martin, you are a rich and a
prosperous man, but the best of all the blessings which the good
Lord has given you is your lovely daughter Rose. If the hearts of
old gentlemen like us who sit in the Town Council are so stirred
that we cannot turn away our purblind eyes from the dear child, who
can find fault with the young folks if they stop and stand like
blocks of wood, or as if spell-bound, when they meet your daughter
in the street, or see her at church, though we have a word of blame
for our clerical gentry, because on the Allerwiese,16
or wherever else a festival is held, they all crowd round your
daughter, with their sighs, and loving glances, and honied words, to
the vexation of all other girls? Well, well, Master Martin, you can
choose you your son-in-law amongst any of our young patricians, or
wherever else you may list."
A dark frown settled on Master Martin's face; he
bade his daughter fetch some good old wine; and after she had left
the room, the hot blushes mantling thick and fast upon her cheeks,
and her eyes bent upon the floor, he turned to old Paumgartner, "Of
a verity, my good sir, Heaven has dowered my daughter with
exceptional beauty, and herein too I have been made rich; but how
can you speak of it in the girl's presence? And as for a patrician
son-in-law, there'll never be anything of that sort." "Enough,
Master Martin, say no more," replied Paumgartner, laughing. "Out of
the fulness of the heart the mouth must speak. Don't you believe,
then, that when I set eyes on Rose the sluggish blood begins to leap
in my old heart also? And if I do honestly speak out what she
herself must very well know, surely there's no very great mischief
done."
Rose brought the wine and two beautiful
drinking-glasses. Then Martin pushed the heavy table, which was
ornamented with some remarkable carving, into the middle of the
kitchen. Scarcely, however, had the old gentlemen taken their places
and Master Martin had filled the glasses when a trampling of horses
was heard in front of the house. It seemed as if a horseman had
pulled up, and as if his voice was heard in the entrance-passage
below. Rose hastened down and soon came back with the intelligence
that old Junker17
Heinrich von Spangenberg was there and wished to speak to Master
Martin. "Marry!" cried Martin, "now this is what I call a fine lucky
evening, which brings me my best and oldest customer. New orders of
course, I see I shall have to 'cask' out again"--Therewith he
hastened down as fast as he was able to meet his welcome guest.
How Master Martin extols his trade
above all others.
The Hochheimer sparkled in the beautiful cut
drinking-glasses, and loosened the tongues and opened the hearts of
the three old gentlemen. Old Spangenberg especially, who, though
advanced in years, was yet brimming with freshness and vivacity, had
many a jolly prank out of his merry youth to relate, so that Master
Martin's belly wabbled famously, and again and again he had to brush
the tears out of his eyes, caused by his loud and hearty laughing.
Herr Paumgartner, too, forgot more than was customary with him the
dignity of the Councillor, and enjoyed right well the noble liquor
and the merry conversation. But when Rose again made her appearance
with the neat housekeeper's basket under her arm, out of which she
took a tablecloth as dazzling white as fresh- fallen snow,--when she
tripped backwards and forwards busy with household matters, laying
the cloth, and placing a plentiful supply of appetising dishes on
the table,--when, with a winning smile she invited the gentlemen not
to despise what had been hurriedly prepared, but to turn to and
eat--during all this time their conversation and laughter ceased.
Neither Paumgartner nor Spangenberg averted their sparkling eyes
from the fascinating maiden, whilst Master Martin too, leaning back
in his chair, and folding his hands, watched her busy movements with
a gratified smile. Rose was withdrawing, but old Spangenberg was on
his feet in a moment, quick as a youth; he took the girl by both
shoulders and cried, again and again, as the bright tears trickled
from his eyes, "Oh you good, you sweet little angel! What a dear
darling girl you are!" then he kissed her twice--three times on the
forehead, and returned to his seat, apparently in deep thought.
Paumgartner proposed the toast of Rose's health.
"Yes," began Spangenberg, after she had gone out of the room, "yes,
Master Martin, Providence has given you a precious jewel in your
daughter, whom you cannot well over-estimate. She will yet bring you
to great honour. Who is there, let him be of what rank in life he
may, who would not willingly be your son-in-law?" "There you are,"
interposed Paumgartner; "there you see, Master Martin, the noble
Herr von Spangenberg is exactly of my opinion. I already see our
dear Rose a patrician's bride with the rich jewellery of pearls18
in her beautiful flaxen hair." "My dear sirs," began Martin, quite
testily, "why do you, my dear sirs, keep harping upon this matter--a
matter to which I have not as yet directed my thoughts? My Rose has
only just reached her eighteenth year; it's not time for such a
young thing to be looking out for a lover. How things may turn out
afterwards--well, that I leave entirely to the will of the Lord; but
this I do at any rate know, that none shall touch my daughter's
hand, be he patrician or who he may, except the cooper who approves
himself the cleverest and skilfullest master in his
trade--presuming, of course, that my daughter will have him, for
never will I constrain my dear child to do anything in the world,
least of all to make a marriage that she does not like." Spangenberg
and Paumgartner looked at each other, perfectly astonished at this
extraordinary decision of the Master's.19
At length, after some clearing of his throat, Spangenberg began,
"So, then, your daughter is not to wed out of her own station?" "God
forbid she should," rejoined Martin. "But," continued Spangenberg,
"if now a skilled master of a higher trade, say a goldsmith, or even
a brave young artist, were to sue for your Rose and succeeded in
winning her favour more than all other young journeymen, what then?"
"I should say," replied Master Martin, throwing his head back into
his neck, "show me, my excellent young friend, the fine two-tun cask
which you have made as your masterpiece; and if he could not do so,
I should kindly open the door for him and very politely request him
to try his luck elsewhere." "Ah! but," went on Spangenberg again,
"if the young journeyman should reply, 'A little structure of that
kind I cannot show you, but come with me to the market-place and
look at yon beautiful house which is sending up its slender gable
into the free open air--that's my masterpiece.'" "Ah! my good sir,
my good sir," broke in Master Martin impatiently, "why do you give
yourself all this trouble to try and make me alter my conviction?
Once and for all, my son-in-law must be of
my
trade; for my trade I hold to be the finest trade there is in the
world. Do you think we've nothing to do but to fix the staves into
the trestles (hoops), so that the cask may hold together? Marry,
it's a fine thing and an admirable thing that our handiwork requires
a previous knowledge of the way in which that noble blessing of
Heaven, good wine, must be kept and managed, that it may acquire
strength and flavour so as to go through all our veins and warm our
blood like the true spirit of life! And then as for the construction
of the casks--if we are to turn out a successful piece of work, must
we not first draw out our plans with compass and rule? We must be
arithmeticians and geometricians of no mean attainments, how else
can we adapt the proportion and size of the cask to the measure of
its contents? Ay, sir, my heart laughs in my body when we've bravely
laboured at the staves with jointer and adze and have gotten a brave
cask in the vice; and then when my journeymen swing their mallets
and down it comes on the drivers clipp! clapp! clipp! clapp!--that's
merry music for you; and there stands your well- made cask. And of a
verity I may look a little proudly about me when I take my
marking-tool in my hand and mark the sign of my handiwork, that is
known and honoured of all respectable wine-masters, on the bottom of
the cask. You spoke of house-building, my good sir. Well, a
beautiful house is in truth a glorious piece of work, but if I were
a house- builder and went past a house I had built, and saw a dirty
fellow or good-for-nothing rascal who had got possession of it
looking down upon me from the bay-window, I should feel thoroughly
ashamed,--I should feel, purely out of vexation and annoyance, as if
I should like to pull down and destroy my own work. But nothing like
that can happen with the structures I build. Within them there comes
and lives once for all nothing but the purest spirit on earth--good
wine. God prosper my handiwork!"
"That's a fine eulogy," said Spangenberg, "and
honestly and well meant. It does you honour to think so highly of
your craft; but--do not get impatient if I keep harping upon the
same string--now if a patrician really came and sued for your
daughter? When a thing is brought right home to a man it often looks
very different from what he thought it would." "Why, i' faith,"
cried Master Martin somewhat vehemently, "why, what else could I do
but make a polite bow and say, 'My dear sir, if you were a brave
cooper, but as it is'"---- "Stop a bit," broke in Spangenberg again;
"but if now some fine day a handsome Junker on a gallant horse, with
a brilliant retinue dressed in magnificent silks and satins, were to
pull up before your door and ask you for Rose to wife?" "Marry, by
my faith," cried Master Martin still more vehemently than before,
"why, marry, I should run down as fast as I could and lock and bolt
the door, and I should shout 'Ride on farther! Ride on farther! my
worshipful Herr Junker; roses like mine don't blossom for you. My
wine-cellar and my money-bags would, I dare say, suit you passing
well--and you would take the girl in with the bargain; but ride on!
ride on farther.'" Old Spangenberg rose to his feet, his face hot
and red all over; then, leaning both hands on the table, he stood
looking on the floor before him. "Well," he began after a pause,
"and now the last question, Master Martin. If the Junker before your
door were my own son, if I myself stopped at your door, would you
shut it then, should you believe then that we were only come for
your wine- cellar and your money-bags?" "Not at all, not at all, my
good and honoured sir," replied Master Martin. "I would gladly throw
open my door, and everything in my house should be at your and your
son's service; but as for my Rose, I should say to you, 'If it had
only pleased Providence to make your gallant son a brave cooper,
there would be no more welcome son-in-law on earth than he; but
now'---- But, my dear good sir, why do you tease and worry me with
such curious questions? See you, our merry talk has come abruptly to
an end, and look! our glasses are all standing full. Let's put all
sons-in-law and Rose's marriage aside; here, I pledge you to the
health of your son, who is, I hear, a handsome young knight." Master
Martin seized his glass; Paumgartner followed his example, saying,
"A truce to all captious conversation, and here's a health to your
gallant son." Spangenberg touched glasses with them, and said with a
forced smile, "Of course you know I was only speaking in jest; for
nothing but wild head-strong passion could ever lead my son, who may
choose him a wife from amongst the noblest families in the land, so
far to disregard his rank and birth as to sue for your daughter. But
methinks you might have answered me in a somewhat more friendly
way." "Well, but, my good sir," replied Master Martin, "even in jest
I could only speak as I should act if the wonderful things you are
pleased to imagine were really to happen. But you
must let me have my pride; for you cannot
but allow that I am the skilfullest cooper far and near, that I
understand the management of wine, that I observe strictly and truly
the admirable wine-regulations of our departed Emperor Maximilian20
(may he rest in peace!), that as beseems a pious man I abhor all
godlessness, that I never burn more than one small half-ounce of
pure sulphur21
in one of my two-tun casks, which is necessary to preserve it--the
which, my good and honoured sirs, you will have abundantly remarked
from the flavour of my wine." Spangenberg resumed his seat, and
tried to put on a cheerful countenance, whilst Paumgartner
introduced other topics of conversation. But, as it so often
happens, when once the strings of an instrument have got out of
tune, they are always getting more or less warped, so that the
player in vain tries to entice from them again the full-toned chords
which they gave at first, thus it was with the three old gentlemen;
no remark, no word, found a sympathetic response. Spangenberg called
for his grooms, and left Master Martin's house quite in an
ill-humour after he had entered it in gay good spirits.
The old Grandmother's Prophecy.
Master Martin was rather ill at ease because his
brave old customer had gone away out of humour in this way, and he
said to Paumgartner, who had just emptied his last glass and rose to
go too, "For the life of me, I can't understand what the old
gentleman meant by his talk, and why he should have got testy about
it at last." "My good friend Master Martin," began Paumgartner, "you
are a good and honest man; and a man has verily a right to set store
by the handiwork he loves and which brings him wealth and honour;
but he ought not to show it in boastful pride, that's against all
right Christian feeling. And in our guild- meeting to-day you did
not act altogether right in putting yourself before all the other
masters. It may true that you understand more about your craft than
all the rest; but that you go and cast it in their teeth can only
provoke ill-humour and black looks. And then you must go and do it
again this evening! You could not surely be so infatuated as to look
for anything else in Spangenberg's talk beyond a jesting attempt to
see to what lengths you would go in your obstinate pride. No wonder
the worthy gentleman felt greatly annoyed when you told him you
should only see common covetousness in any Junker's wooing of your
daughter. But all would have been well if, when Spangenberg began to
speak of his son, you had interposed--if you had said, 'Marry, my
good and honoured sir, if you yourself came along with your son to
sue for my daughter--why, i' faith, that would be far too high an
honour for me, and I should then have wavered in my firmest
principles.' Now, if you had spoken to him like that, what else
could old Spangenberg have done but forget his former resentment,
and smile cheerfully and in good humour as he had done before?" "Ay,
scold me," said Master Martin, "scold me right well, I have well
deserved it; but when the old gentleman would keep talking such
stupid nonsense I felt as if I were choking, I could not make any
other answer." "And then," went on Paumgartner, "what a ridiculous
resolve to give your daughter to nobody but a cooper! You will
commit, you say, your daughter's destiny to Providence, and yet with
human shortsightedness you anticipate the decree of the Almighty in
that you obstinately determine beforehand that your son-in-law is to
come from within a certain narrow circle. That will prove the ruin
of you and your Rose, if you are not careful Have done, Master
Martin, have done with such unchristian childish folly; leave the
Almighty, who will put a right choice in your daughter's honest
heart when the right time comes--leave Him to manage it all in his
own way." "O my worthy friend," said Master Martin, quite
crest-fallen, "I now see how wrong I was not to tell you everything
at first. You think it is nothing but overrating my handiwork that
has brought me to take this unchangeable resolve of wedding Rose to
none but a master-cooper; but that is not so; there is another
reason, a more wonderful and mysterious reason. I can't let you go
until you have learned all; you shall not bear ill-will against me
over-night. Sit down, I earnestly beg you, stay a few minutes
longer. See here; there's still a bottle of that old wine left which
the ill-tempered Junker has despised; come, let's enjoy it
together." Paumgartner was astonished at Master Martin's earnest,
confidential tone, which was in general perfectly foreign to his
nature; it seemed as if there was something weighing heavy upon the
man's heart that he wanted to get rid of.
And when Paumgartner had taken his seat and drunk
a glass of wine, Master Martin began as follows. "You know, my good
and honoured friend, that soon after Rose was born I lost my beloved
wife; Rose's birth was her death. At that time my old grandmother
was still living, if you can call it living when one is blind, deaf
as a post, scarce able to speak, lame in every limb, and lying in
bed day after day and night after night Rose had been christened;
and the nurse sat with the child in the room where my old
grandmother lay. I was so cut up with grief, and when I looked upon
my child, so sad and yet so glad--in fact I was so greatly shaken
that I felt utterly unfitted for any kind of work, and stood quite
still and wrapped up in my own thoughts beside my old grandmother's
bed; and I counted her happy, since now all her earthly pain was
over. And as I gazed upon her face a strange smile began to steal
across it, her withered features seemed to be smoothed out, her pale
cheeks became flushed with colour. She raised herself up in bed; she
stretched out her paralysed arms, as if suddenly animated by some
supernatural power,--for she had never been able to do so at other
times. She called distinctly in a low pleasant voice, 'Rose, my
darling Rose!' The nurse got up and brought her the child, which she
rocked up and down in her arms. But then, my good sir, picture my
utter astonishment, nay, my alarm, when the old lady struck up in a
clear strong voice a song in the Hohe
fröhliche Lobweis22
of Herr Hans Berchler, mine host of the Holy Ghost in Strasburg,
which ran like this--
Maiden tender, with cheeks so red,
Rose, listen to the words I say;
Wouldst guard thyself from fear and ill?
Then put thy trust in God alway;
Let not thy tongue at aught make mock,
Nor foolish longings feed at heart.
A vessel fair to see he'll bring,
In which the spicy liquid foams,
And bright, bright angels gaily sing.
And then in reverent mood
Hearken to the truest love,
Oh! hearken to the sweet love-words.
The vessel fair with golden grace--
Lo! him who brings it in the house
Thou wilt reward with sweet embrace;
And an thy lover be but true,
Thou need'st nor wait thy father's kiss.
The vessel fair will always bring
All wealth and joy and peace and bliss;
So, virgin fair, with the bright, bright eyes,
Let aye thy little ear be ope
To all true words. And henceforth live,
And with God's richest blessing thrive.
"And after she had sung this song through, she
laid the child gently and carefully down upon the coverlet; and,
placing her trembling withered hand upon her forehead, she muttered
something to herself, to us, however, unintelligible; but the rapt
countenance of the old lady showed in every feature that she was
praying. Then her head sank back upon the pillows, and just as the
nurse took up the child my old grandmother took a deep breath; she
was dead." "That is a wonderful story," said Paumgartner when Master
Martin ceased speaking; "but I don't exactly see what is the
connection between your old grandmother's prophetic song and your
obstinate resolve to give Rose to none but a master-cooper." "What!"
replied Master Martin, "why, what can be plainer than that the old
lady, especially inspired by the Lord at the last moments of her
life, announced in a prophetic voice what must happen if Rose is to
be happy? The lover who is to bring wealth and joy and peace and
bliss into the house with his vessel fair, who is that but a lusty
cooper who has made his vessel fair, his masterpiece with me? In
what other vessel does the spicy liquid foam, if not in the
wine-cask? And when the wine works, it bubbles and even murmurs and
splashes; that's the lovely angels chasing each other backwards and
forwards in the wine and singing their gay songs. Ay, ay, I tell
you, my old grandmother meant none other lover than a master-cooper;
and it shall be so, it shall be so." "But, my good Master Martin,"
said Paumgartner, "you are interpreting the words of your old
grandmother just in your own way. Your interpretation is far from
satisfactory to my mind; and I repeat that you ought to leave all
simply to the ordering of Providence and your daughter's heart, in
which I dare be bound the right choice lies hidden away somewhere."
"And I repeat," interrupted Martin impatiently, "that my son-in-law
shall be,--I am resolved,--shall
be none other than a skilful cooper." Paumgartner almost got angry
at Master Martin's stubbornness; he controlled himself, however,
and, rising from his seat, said, "It's getting late, Master Martin,
let us now have done with our drinking and talking, for neither
methinks will do us any more good."
When they came out into the entrance-hall, there
stood a young woman with five little boys, the eldest scarce eight
years old apparently, and the youngest scarce six months. She was
weeping and sobbing bitterly. Rose hastened to meet the two old
gentlemen and said, "Oh father, father! Valentine is dead; there is
his wife and the children." "What! Valentine dead?" cried Master
Martin, greatly startled. "Oh! that accident! that accident! Just
fancy," he continued, turning to Paumgartner, "just fancy, my good
sir, Valentine was the cleverest journeyman I had on the premises;
and he was industrious, and a good honest man as well. Some time ago
he wounded himself dangerously with the adze in building a large
cask; the wound got worse and worse; he was seized with a violent
fever, and now he has had to die of it in the prime of life."
Thereupon Master Martin approached the poor disconsolate woman, who,
bathed in tears, was lamenting that she had nothing but misery and
starvation staring her in the face. "What!" said Master Martin,
"what do you think of me then? Your husband got his dangerous wound
whilst working for me, and do you think I am going to let you perish
of want? No, you all belong to my house from now onwards. To-morrow,
or whenever you like, we'll bury your poor husband, and then do you
and your boys go to my farm outside the Ladies Gate,23
where my fine open workshop is, and where I work every day with my
journeymen. You can install yourself as housekeeper there to look
after things for me, and your fine boys I will educate as if they
were my own sons. And, I tell you what, I'll take your old father as
well into my house. He was a sturdy journeyman cooper once upon a
time whilst he still had muscle in his arms. And now--if he can no
longer wield the mallet, or the beetle or the beak iron, or work at
the bench, he yet can do something with croze-adze, or can hollow
out staves for me with the draw-knife. At any rate he shall come
along with you and be taken into my house." If Master Martin had not
caught hold of the woman, she would have fallen on the floor at his
feet in a dead swoon, she was so affected by grief and emotion. The
eldest of the boys clung to his doublet, whilst the two youngest,
whom Rose had taken in her arms, stretched out their tiny hands
towards him, as if they had understood it all. Old Paumgartner said,
smiling and with bright tears standing in his eyes, "Master Martin,
one can't bear you any ill-will;" and he betook himself to his own
home.
How the two young journeymen
Frederick and Reinhold became acquainted with each other.
Upon a beautiful, grassy, gently-sloping hill,
shaded by lofty trees, lay a fine well-made young journeyman, whose
name was Frederick. The sun had already set, and rosy tongues of
light were stretching upwards from the furthest verge of the
horizon. In the distance the famed imperial town of Nuremberg could
be plainly seen, spreading across the valley and boldly lifting up
her proud towers against the red glow of the evening, its golden
rays gilding their pinnacles. The young journeyman was leaning his
arm on his bundle, which lay beside him, and contained his
necessaries whilst on the travel, and was gazing with looks full of
longing down into the valley. Then he plucked some of the flowers
which grew among the grass within reach of him and tossed them into
the air towards the glorious sunset; afterwards he sat gazing sadly
before him, and the burning tears gathered in his eyes. At length he
raised his head, and spreading out his arms as if about to embrace
some one dear to him, he sang in a clear and very pleasant voice the
following song:--
My eyes now rest once more
On thee, O home, sweet home!
My true and honest heart
Has ne'er forgotten thee.
O rosy glow of evening come,
I fain would naught but roses see.
Ye sweetest buds and flowers of love,
Bend down and touch my heart
With winsome sweet caresses.
O swelling bosom, wilt thou burst?
Yet hold in pain and sweet joy fast.
O golden evening red!
O beauteous ray, be my sweet messenger,
And bear to her my sighs and tears--
My tears and sighs on faithfully to her.
And were I now to die,
And roses then did ask thee--say,
"His heart with love--it pined away."
Having sung this song, Frederick took a little
piece of wax out of his bundle, warmed it in his bosom, and began in
a neat and artistic manner to model a beautiful rose with scores of
delicate petals. Whilst busy with this work he hummed to himself
some of the lines of the song he had just sung, and so deeply
absorbed was he in his occupation that he did not observe the
handsome youth who had been standing behind him for some time and
attentively watching his work.
"Marry, my friend," began now the youth, "by my
troth, that is a dainty piece of work you are making there."
Frederick looked round in alarm; but when he looked into the dark
friendly eyes of the young stranger, he felt as if he had known him
for a long time. Smiling, he replied, "Oh! my dear sir, how can you
notice such trifling? it only serves me for pastime on my journey."
"Well then," went on the stranger youth, "if you call that
delicately formed flower, which is so faithful a reproduction of
Nature, trifling, you must be a skilful practised modeller. You have
afforded me a pleasant surprise in two ways. First, I was quite
touched to the heart by the song you sang so admirably to Martin
Häscher's Zarte Buchstabenweis; and now I
cannot but admire your artistic skill in modelling. How much farther
do you intend to travel to-day?" Frederick replied, "Yonder lies the
goal of my journey before our eyes. I am going home, to the famed
imperial town of Nuremberg. But as the sun has now been set some
time, I shall pass the night in the village below there, and then by
being up and away in the early morning I can be in Nuremberg at
noon." "Marry," cried the youth, delighted, "how finely things will
fit; we are both going the same way, for I want to go to Nuremberg.
I will spend the night with you here in the village, and then we'll
proceed on our way again to-morrow. And now let us talk a little."
The youth, Reinhold by name, threw himself down beside Frederick on
the grass, and continued, "If I mistake not, you are a skilful
artist-caster, are you not? I infer it from your style of modelling;
or perhaps you are a worker in gold and silver?" Frederick cast down
his eyes sadly, and said dejectedly, "Marry, my dear sir, you are
taking me for something far better and higher than I really am.
Well, I will speak candidly; I have learned the trade of a cooper,
and am now going to work for a well-known master in Nuremberg. You
will no doubt look down upon me with contempt since, instead of
being able to mould and cast splendid statues, and such like, all I
can do is to hoop casks and tubs." Reinhold burst out laughing, and
cried, "Now that I call droll. I shall look down upon you--eh?
because you are a cooper; why man, that's what I am; I'm nothing but
a cooper." Frederick opened his eyes wide in astonishment; he did
not know what to make of it, for Reinhold's dress was in keeping
with anything sooner than a journeyman cooper's on travel. His
doublet of fine black cloth, trimmed with slashed velvet, his dainty
ruff, his short broadsword, and baretta with a long drooping
feather, seemed rather to point to a prosperous merchant; and yet
again there was a strange something about the face and form of the
youth which completely negatived the idea of a merchant. Reinhold,
noticing Frederick's doubting glances, undid his travelling-bundle
and produced his cooper's apron and knife-belt, saying, "Look here,
my friend, look here. Have you any doubts now as to my being a
comrade? I perceive you are astonished at my clothing, but I have
just come from Strasburg, where the coopers go about the streets as
fine as noblemen. Certainly I did once set my heart upon something
else like you, but now to be a cooper is the topmost height of my
ambition, and I have staked many a grand hope upon it. Is it not the
same with you, comrade? But I could almost believe that a dark
cloud- shadow had been hung unawares about the brightness of your
youth, so that you are no longer able to look freely and gladly
about you. The song which you were just singing was full of pain and
of the yearning of love; but there were strains in it that seemed as
if they proceeded from my own heart, and I somehow fancy I know all
that is locked up within your breast. You may therefore all the more
put confidence in me, for shall we not then be good comrades in
Nuremberg?" Reinhold threw his arm around Frederick and looked
kindly into his eyes. Whereupon Frederick said, "The more I look at
you, honest friend, the stronger I feel drawn towards you; I clearly
discern within my breast the wonderful voice which faithfully echoes
the cry that you are a sympathetic spirit I must tell you all--not
that a poor fellow like me has any important secrets to confide to
you, but simply because there is room in the heart of the true
friend for his friend's pain, and during
the first moments of our new acquaintance even I acknowledge you to
be my truest friend.
"I am now a cooper, and may boast that I
understand my work; but all my thoughts have been directed to
another and a nobler art since my very childhood. I wished to become
a great master in casting statues and in silver-work, like Peter
Fischer24
or the Italian Benvenuto Cellini;25
and so I worked with intense ardour along with Herr Johannes
Holzschuer,26
the well-known worker in silver in my native town yonder. For
although he did not exactly cast statues himself, he was yet able to
give me a good introduction to the art. And Herr Tobias Martin, the
master-cooper, often came to Herr Holzschuer's with his daughter,
pretty Rose. Without being consciously aware of it, I fell in love
with her. I then left home and went to Augsburg in order to learn
properly the art of casting, but this first caused my smouldering
passion to burst out into flames. I saw and heard nothing but Rose;
every exertion and all labour that did not tend to the winning of
her grew hateful to me. And so I adopted the only course that would
bring me to this goal. For Master Martin will only give his daughter
to the cooper who shall make the very best masterpiece in his house,
and who of course finds favour in his daughter's eyes as well. I
deserted my own art to learn cooperage. I am now going to Nuremberg
to work for Master Martin. But now that my home lies before me and
Rose's image rises up before my eyes, I feel overcome with anxiety
and nervousness, and my heart sinks within me. Now I see clearly how
foolishly I have acted; for I don't even know whether Rose loves me
or whether she ever will love me." Reinhold had listened to
Frederick's story with increasing attention. He now rested his head
on his arm, and, shading his eyes with his hand, asked in a hollow
moody voice, "And has Rose never given you any signs of her love?"
"Nay," replied Frederick, "nay, for when I left Nuremberg she was
more a child than a maiden. No doubt she liked me; she smiled upon
me most sweetly when I never wearied plucking flowers for her in
Herr Holzschuer's garden and weaving them into wreaths, but----"
"Oh! then all hope is not yet lost," cried Reinhold suddenly, and so
vehemently and in such a disagreeably shrill voice that Frederick
was almost terrified. At the same time he leapt to his feet, his
sword rattling against his side, and as he stood upright at his full
stature the deep shadows of the night fell upon his pale face and
distorted his gentle features in a most unpleasant way, so that
Frederick cried, perfectly alarmed, "What's happened to you all at
once?" and stepping back, his foot knocked against Reinhold's
bundle. There proceeded from it the jarring of some stringed
instrument, and Reinhold cried angrily, "You ill-mannered fellow,
don't break my lute all to pieces." The instrument was fastened to
the bundle; Reinhold unbuckled it and ran his fingers wildly over
the strings as if he would break them all. But his playing soon grew
soft and melodious. "Come, brother," said he in the same gentle tone
as before, "let us now go down into the village. I've got a good
means here in my hands to banish the evil spirits who may cross our
path, and who might in particular have any dealings with me." "Why,
brother," replied Frederick, "what evil spirits will be likely to
have anything to do with us on the way? But your playing is very,
very nice; please go on with it."
The golden stars were beginning to dot the dark
azure sky. The night breezes in low murmurous whispers swept lightly
over the fragrant meadows. The brooks babbled louder, and the trees
rustled in the distant woods round about Then Frederick and Reinhold
went down the slope playing and singing, and the sweet notes of
their songs, so full of noble aspirations, swelled up clear and
sharp in the air, as if they had been plumed arrows of light.
Arrived at their quarters for the night, Reinhold quickly threw
aside lute and bundle and strained Frederick to his heart; and
Frederick felt on his cheeks the scalding tears which Reinhold shed.
How the two young journeymen,
Reinhold and Frederick,
were taken into Master Martin's house.
Next morning when Frederick awoke he missed his
new-won friend, who had the night before thrown himself down upon
the straw pallet at his side; and as his lute and his bundle were
likewise missing, Frederick quite concluded that Reinhold, from
reasons which were unknown to him, had left him and gone another
road. But directly he stepped out of the house Reinhold came to meet
him, his bundle on his back and his lute under his arm, and dressed
altogether differently from what he had been the day before. He had
taken the feather out of his baretta, and laid aside his sword, and
had put on a plain burgher's doublet of an unpretentious colour,
instead of the fine one with the velvet trimmings. "Now, brother,"
he cried, laughing merrily to his astonished friend, "you will
acknowledge me for your true comrade and faithful work-mate now, eh?
But let me tell you that for a youth in love you have slept most
soundly. Look how high the sun is. Come, let us be going on our
way." Frederick was silent and busied with his own thoughts; he
scarcely answered Reinhold's questions and scarcely heeded his
jests. Reinhold, however, was full of exuberant spirits; he ran from
side to side, shouted, and waved his baretta in the air. But he too
became more and more silent the nearer they approached the town. "I
can't go any farther, I am so full of nervousness and anxiety and
sweet sadness; let us rest a little while beneath these trees." Thus
spake Frederick just before they reached the gate; and he threw
himself down quite exhausted in the grass. Reinhold sat down beside
him, and after a while began, "I daresay you thought me extremely
strange yesterday evening, good brother mine. But as you told me
about your love, and were so very dejected, then all kinds of
foolish nonsense flooded my mind and made me quite confused, and
would have made me mad in the end if your good singing and my lute
had not driven away the evil spirits. But this morning when the
first ray of sunlight awoke me, all my gaiety of heart returned, for
all nasty feelings had already left me last evening. I ran out, and
whilst wandering among the undergrowth a crowd of fine things came
into my mind: how I had found you, and how all my heart felt drawn
towards you. There also occurred to me a pretty little story which
happened some time ago when I was in Italy; I will tell it to you,
since it is a remarkable illustration of what true friendship can
do.
"It chanced that a noble prince, a warm patron and
friend of the Fine Arts, offered a very large prize for a painting,
the subject of which was definitely fixed, and which, though a
splendid subject, was one difficult to treat. Two young painters,
united by the closest bond of friendship and wont to work together,
resolved to compete for the prize. They communicated their designs
to each other and had long talks as to how they should overcome the
difficulties connected with the subject. The elder, more experienced
in drawing and in arrangement and grouping, had soon formed a
conception of the picture and sketched it; then he went to the
younger, whom he found so discouraged in the very designing that he
would have given the scheme up, had not the elder constantly
encouraged him, and imparted to him good advice. But when they began
to paint, the younger, a master in colour, was able to give his
friend many a hint, which he turned to the best account; and
eventually it was found that the younger had never designed a better
picture, nor the elder coloured one better. The pieces being
finished, the two artists fell upon each other's neck; each was
delighted, enraptured, with the other's work, and each adjudged the
prize, which they both deserved, to his friend. But when,
eventually, the prize was declared to have fallen to the younger, he
cried, ashamed, 'Oh! how can I have gained the prize? What is my
merit in comparison with that of my friend? I should never have
produced anything at all good without his advice and valuable
assistance.' Then said the elder, 'And did not you too stand by me
with invaluable counsel? My picture is certainly not bad; but yours
has carried off the prize as it deserved. To strive honestly and
openly towards the same goal, that is the way of true friends; the
wreath which the victor wins confers honour also upon the
vanquished. I love you now all the more that you have so bravely
striven, and in your victory I also reap fame and honour.' And the
painter was right, was he not, Frederick? Honest contention for the
same prize, without any malicious reserve, ought to unite true
friends still more and knit their hearts still closer, instead of
setting them at variance. Ought there to be any room in noble minds
for petty envy or malicious hate?" "Never, certainly not," replied
Frederick. "We are now faithful loving brothers, and shall both in a
short time construct our masterpiece in Nuremburg, a good two-tun
cask, made without fire; but Heaven forbid that I should feel the
least spark of envy if yours, dear brother Reinhold, turned out to
be better than mine." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Reinhold heartily, "go
on with you and your masterpiece; you'll soon manage that to the joy
of all good coopers. And let me tell you that in all that concerns
calculation of size and proportion, and drawing plans of sections of
circles, you'll find I'm your man. And then in choosing your wood
you may rely fully upon me. Staves of the holm oak felled in winter,
without worm-holes, without either red or white streaks, and without
blemish, that's what we must look for; you may trust my eyes. I will
stand by you with all the help I can, in both deed and counsel; and
my own masterpiece will be none the worse for it." "But in the name
of all that's holy," broke in Frederick here, "why are we chattering
about who is to make the best masterpiece? Are we to have any
contest about the matter?--the best masterpiece--to gain Rose! What
are we thinking about? The very thought makes me giddy." "Marry,
brother," cried Reinhold, still laughing, "there was no thought at
all of Rose. You are a dreamer. Come along, let us go on if we are
to get into the town." Frederick leapt to his feet, and went on his
way, his mind in a whirl of confusion.
As they were washing and brushing off the dust of
travel in the hostelry, Reinhold said to Frederick, "To tell you the
truth, I for my part don't know for what master I shall work; I have
no acquaintances here at all; and I thought you would perhaps take
me along with you to Master Martin's, brother? Perhaps I may get
taken on by him." "You remove a heavy load from my heart," replied
Frederick, "for if you will only stay with me, it will be easier for
me to conquer my anxiety and nervousness." And so the two young
apprentices trudged sturdily on to the house of the famed cooper,
Master Martin.
It happened to be the very Sunday on which Master
Martin gave his feast in honour of his election as "Candle-master;"
and the two arrived just as they were partaking of the good cheer.
So it was that as Reinhold and Frederick entered into Master
Martin's house they heard the ringing of glasses and the confused
buzz and rattle of a merry company at a feast. "Oh!" said Frederick
quite cast down, "we have, it seems, come at an unseasonable time."
"Nay, I think we have come exactly at the right time," replied
Reinhold, "for Master Martin is sure to be in good humour after a
good feast, and well disposed to grant our wishes." They caused
their arrival to be announced to Master Martin, and soon he appeared
in the entrance-passage, dressed in holiday garb and with no small
amount of colour in his nose and on his cheeks. On catching sight of
Frederick he cried, "Holla! Frederick, my good lad, have you come
home again? That's fine! And so you have taken up the best of all
trades--cooperage. Herr Holzschuer cuts confounded wry faces when
your name is mentioned, and says a great artist is ruined in you,
and that you could have cast little images and espaliers as fine as
those in St. Sebald's or on Fugger's27
house at Augsburg. But that's all nonsense; you have done quite
right to step across the way here. Welcome, lad, welcome with all my
heart." And therewith Herr Martin took him by the shoulders and drew
him to his bosom, as was his wont, thoroughly well pleased. This
kind reception by Master Martin infused new spirits into Frederick;
all his nervousness left him, so that unhesitatingly and without
constraint he was able not only to prefer his own request but also
warmly to recommend Reinhold. "Well, to tell you the truth," said
Master Martin, "you could not have come at a more fortunate time
than just now, for work keeps increasing and I am bankrupt of
workmen. You are both heartily welcome. Put your bundles down and
come in; our meal is indeed almost finished, but you can come and
take your seats at the table, and Rose shall look after you and get
you something." And Master Martin and the two journeymen went into
the room. There sat the honest masters, the worthy syndic Jacobus
Paumgartner at their head, all with hot red faces. Dessert was being
served, and a better brand of wine was sparkling in the glasses.
Every master was talking about something different from all his
neighbours and in a loud voice, and yet they all thought they
understood each other; and now and again some of them burst out in a
hearty laugh without exactly knowing why. When, however. Master
Martin came back, leading the two young men by the hand, and
announced aloud that he brought two journeymen who had come to him
well provided with testimonials just at the time he wanted them,
then all grew silent, each master scrutinising the smart young
fellows with a smile of comfortable satisfaction, whilst Frederick
cast his eyes down and twisted his baretta about in his hands.
Master Martin directed the youths to places at the very bottom of
the table; but these were soon the very best of all, for Rose came
and took her seat between the two, and served them attentively both
with dainty dishes and with good rich wine. There was Rose, a most
winsome picture of grace and loveliness, seated between the two
handsome youths, all in midst of the bearded old men--it was a right
pleasant sight to see; the mind instantly recalled a bright morning
cloud rising solitary above the dim dark horizon, or beautiful
spring flowers lifting up their bright heads from amidst the uniform
colourless grass. Frederick was so very happy and so very delighted
that his breath almost failed him for joy; and only now and again
did he venture to steal a glance at her who filled his heart so
fully. His eyes were fixedly bent upon his plate; how could he
possibly dream of eating the least morsel? Reinhold, on the other
hand, could not turn his sparkling, radiant eyes away from the
lovely maiden. He began to talk about his long journeys in such a
wonderful way that Rose had never heard anything like it. She seemed
to see everything of which he spoke rise up vividly before her in
manifold ever-changing forms. She was all eyes and ears; and when
Reinhold, carried away by the fire of his own words, grasped her
hand and pressed it to his heart, she didn't know where she was.
"But bless me," broke off Reinhold all at once, "why, Frederick, you
are quite silent and still. Have you lost your tongue? Come, let us
drink to the weal of the lovely maiden who has so hospitably
entertained us." With a trembling hand Frederick seized the huge
drinking-glass that Reinhold had filled to the brim and now insisted
on his draining to the last drop. "Now here's long life to our
excellent master," cried Reinhold, again filling the glasses and
again compelling Frederick to empty his. Then the fiery juices of
the wine permeated his veins and stirred up his stagnant blood until
it coursed as it were triumphantly through his every limb. "Oh! I
feel so indescribably happy," he whispered, the burning blushes
mounting into his cheeks. "Oh! I have never felt so happy in all my
life before." Rose, who undoubtedly gave another interpretation to
his words, smiled upon him with incomparable gentleness. Then, quit
of all his embarrassing shyness, Frederick said, "Dear Rose, I
suppose you no longer remember me, do you?" "But, dear Frederick,"
replied Rose, casting down her eyes, "how could I possibly forget
you in so short a time? When you were at Herr Holzschuer's--true, I
was only a mere child then, yet you did not disdain to play with me,
and always had something nice and pretty to talk about. And that
dear little basket made of fine silver wire that you gave me at
Christmas-time, I've got it still, and I take care of it and keep it
as a precious memento." Frederick was intoxicated with delight and
tears glittered in his eyes. He tried to speak, but there only burst
from his breast, like a deep sigh, the words, "O Rose--dear, dear
Rose." "I have always really from my heart longed to see you again,"
went on Rose; "but that you would become a cooper, that I never for
a moment dreamed. Oh! when I call to mind the beautiful things that
you made whilst you were with Master Holzschuer--oh! it really is a
pity that you have not stuck to your art." "O Rose," said Frederick,
"it is only for your sake that I have become unfaithful to it." No
sooner had he uttered these words than he could have sunk into the
earth for shame and confusion. He had most thoughtlessly let the
confession slip over his lips. Rose, as if divining all, turned her
face away from him; whilst he in vain struggled for words.
Then Herr Paumgartner struck the table a bang with
his knife, and announced to the company that Herr Vollrad, a worthy
Meistersinger,28
would favour them with a song. Herr Vollrad at once rose to his
feet, cleared his throat, and sang such an excellent song in the
Güldne Tonweis29
of Herr Vogelgesang that everybody's heart leapt with joy, and even
Frederick recovered himself from his awkward embarrassment again.
After Herr Vollrad had sung several other excellent songs to several
other excellent tunes, such as the
Süsser Ton,
the Krummzinkenweis, the
Geblümte Paradiesweis, the
Frisch Pomeranzenweis, &c., he called upon
any one else at the table who understood anything of the sweet and
delectable art of the Meistersinger also
to honour them with a song. Then Reinhold rose to his feet and said
that if he might be allowed to accompany himself on his lute in the
Italian fashion he would give them a song, keeping, however,
strictly to the German tune. As nobody had any objection he fetched
his instrument, and, after a little tuneful prelude, began the
following song:--
Where is the little fount
Where sparkles the spicy wine?
From forth its golden depths
Its golden sparkles mount
And dance 'fore the gladdened eye.
This beautiful little fount
Wherein the golden wine
Sparkles--who made it,
With thoughtful skill and fine,
With such high art and industry,
That praise deserve so well?
This little fount so gay,
Wrought with high art and fine,
Was fashioned by one
Who ne'er an artist was--
But a brave young cooper he,
His veins with rich wine glowing,
His heart with true love singing,
And ever lovingly--
For that's young cooper's way
In all the things he does.
This song pleased them all down to the ground, but
none more so than Master Martin, whose eyes sparkled with pleasure
and delight. Without heeding Vollrad, who had almost too much to say
about Hans Müller's Stumpfe Schossweis,
which the youth had caught excellently well,-- Master Martin,
without heeding him, rose from his seat, and, lifting his
passglas30
above his head, called aloud, "Come here, honest cooper and
Meistersinger, come here and drain this
glass with me, your Master Martin." Reinhold had to do as he was
bidden. Returning to his place, he whispered into Frederick's ear,
who was looking very pensive, "Now, you must sing--sing the song you
sang last night." "Are you mad?" asked Frederick, quite angry. But
Reinhold turned to the company and said in a loud voice, "My
honoured gentlemen and masters, my dear brother Frederick here can
sing far finer songs, and has a much pleasanter voice than I have,
but his throat has got full of dust from his travels, and he will
treat you to some of his songs another time, and then to the most
admirable tunes." And they all began to shower down their praises
upon Frederick, as if he had already sung. Indeed, in the end, more
than one of the masters was of opinion that his voice was really
more agreeable than journeyman Reinhold's, and Herr Vollrad also,
after he had drunk another glass, was convinced that Frederick could
use the beautiful German tunes far better than Reinhold, for the
latter had too much of the Italian style about him. And Master
Martin, throwing his head back into his neck, and giving his round
belly a hearty slap, cried, "Those are
my
journeymen, my journeymen, I tell
you--mine, master-cooper Tobias Martin's of Nuremberg." And all the
other masters nodded their heads in assent, and, sipping the last
drops out of the bottom of their tall glasses, said, "Yes, yes. Your
brave, honest journeymen, Master Martin--that they are." At length
it was time to retire to rest Master Martin led Reinhold and
Frederick each into a bright cheerful room in his own house.
How the third journeyman came into
Master Martin's house,
and what followed in consequence.
After the two journeymen had worked for some weeks
in Master Martin's workshop, he perceived that in all that concerned
measurement with rule and compass, and calculation, and estimation
of measure and size by eyesight, Reinhold could hardly find his
match, but it was a different thing when it came to hard work at the
bench or with the adze or the mallet. Then Reinhold soon grew tired,
and the work did not progress, no matter how great efforts he might
make. On the other hand, Frederick planed and hammered away without
growing particularly tired. But one thing they had in common with
each other, and that was their well- mannered behaviour, marked,
principally at Reinhold's instance, by much natural cheerfulness and
good-natured enjoyment. Besides, even when hard at work, they did
not spare their throats, especially when pretty Rose was present,
but sang many an excellent song, their pleasant voices harmonising
well together. And whenever Frederick, glancing shyly across at
Rose, seemed to be falling into his melancholy mood, Reinhold at
once struck up a satirical song that he composed, beginning, "The
cask is not the cither, nor is the cither the cask," so that old
Herr Martin often had to let the croze-adze which he had raised,
sink again without striking and hold his big belly as it wabbled
from his internal laughter. Above all, the two journeymen, and
mainly Reinhold, had completely won their way into Martin's favour;
and it was not difficult to observe that Rose found a good many
pretexts for lingering oftener and longer in the workshop than she
certainly otherwise would have done.
One day Master Martin entered his open workshop
outside the town-gate, where work was carried on all the summer
through, with his brow weighted with thought Reinhold and Frederick
were in the act of setting up a small cask. Then Master Martin
planted himself before them with his arms crossed over his chest and
said, "I can't tell you how pleased I am with you, my good
journeymen, but I am just now in a great difficulty. They write me
from the Rhine that this will be a more prosperous wine-year than
there ever has been before. A learned man says that the comet which
has been seen in the heavens will fructify the earth with its
wonderful tail, so that the glowing heat which fabricates the
precious metals down in the deepest mines will all stream upwards
and evaporate into the thirsty vines, till they prosper and thrive
and put forth multitudes of grapes, and the liquid fire with which
they are filled will be poured out into the grapes. It will be
almost three hundred years before such a favourable constellation
occurs again. So now we shall all have our hands full of work. And
then there's his Lordship the Bishop of Bamberg has written to me
and ordered a large cask. That we can't get done; and I shall have
to look about for another useful journeyman. Now I should not like
to take the first fellow I meet off the street amongst us, and yet
the matter is very urgent. If you know of a good journeyman anywhere
whom you would be willing to work with, you have only to tell me,
and I will get him here, even though it should cost me a good sum of
money."
Hardly had Master Martin finished speaking when a
young man, tall and stalwart, shouted to him in a loud voice, "Hi!
you there! is this Master Martin's workshop?" "Certainly," replied
Master Martin, going towards the young man, "certainly it is; but
you needn't shout so deuced loud and lumber in like that; that's not
the way to find people." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the young fellow,
"marry, you are Master Martin himself, for--fat belly--stately
double-chin--sparkling eyes, and red nose--yes, that's just how he
was described to me. I bid you good hail, Master Martin." "Well, and
what do you want from Master Martin?" he asked, indignantly. The
young fellow replied, "I am a journeyman cooper, and merely wanted
to ask if I could find work with you." Marvelling that just as he
was thinking about looking out for a journeyman one should come to
him like this, Master Martin drew back a few paces and eyed the
young man from head to foot. He, however, met the scrutiny unabashed
and with sparkling eyes. Noting his broad chest, stalwart build, and
powerful arms, Master Martin thought within himself, it's just such
a lusty fellow as this that I want, and he at once asked him for his
trade testimonials.31
"I haven't them with me just at this present moment," replied the
young man, "but I will get them in a short time; and I give you now
my word of honour that I will work well and honestly, and that must
suffice you." Thereupon, without waiting for Master Martin's reply,
the young journeyman stepped into the workshop. He threw down his
baretta and bundle, took off his doublet, put on his apron, and
said, "Come, Master Martin, tell me at once what I am to begin
with." Master Martin, completely taken aback by the young stranger's
resolute vigour and promptitude, had to think a little; then he
said, "Come then, my fine fellow, and show me at once that you are a
good cooper; take this croze-adze and finish the groove of that cask
lying in the vice yonder." The stranger performed what he had been
bidden with remarkable strength, quickness, and skill; and then he
cried, laughing loudly, "Now, Master Martin, have you any doubts now
as to my being a good cooper? But," he continued, going backwards
and forwards through the shop, and examining the instruments and
tools, and supply of wood, "but though you are well supplied with
useful stores and--but what do you call this little thing of a
mallet? I suppose it's for your children to play with; and this
little adze here--why it must be for your apprentices when they
first begin," and he swung round his head the huge heavy mallet
which Reinhold could not lift and which Frederick had great
difficulty in wielding; and then he did the same with the ponderous
adze with which Master Martin himself worked. Then he rolled a
couple of huge casks on one side as if they had been light balls,
and seized one of the large thick beams which had not yet been
worked at "Marry, master," he cried, "marry, this is good sound oak;
I wager it will snap like glass." And thereupon he struck the stave
against the grindstone so that it broke clean in half with a loud
crack. "Pray be so kind," said Master Martin, "pray have the
kindness, my good fellow, to kick that two-tun cask about or to pull
down the whole shop. There, you can take that balk for a mallet, and
that you may have an adze to your mind I will have Roland's sword,
which is three yards long, fetched for you from the town-house."
"Ay, do, that's just the thing," said the young man, his eyes
flashing; but the next minute he cast them down upon the ground and
said, lowering his voice, "I only thought, good master, that you
wanted right strong journeymen for your heavy work, and now I have,
I see, been too forward, too swaggering, in displaying my bodily
strength. But do take me on to work, I will faithfully do whatever
you shall require of me." Master Martin scanned the youth's
features, and could not but admit that he had never seen more
nobility and at the same time more downright honesty in any man's
face. And yet, as he looked upon the young fellow, there stole into
his mind a dim recollection of some man whom he had long esteemed
and honoured, but he could not clearly call to mind who it was. For
this reason he granted the young man's request on the spot, only
enjoining upon him to produce at the earliest opportunity the
needful credible trade attestations.
Meanwhile Reinhold and Frederick had finished
setting up their cask and were now busy driving on the first hoops.
Whilst doing this they were always in the habit of striking up a
song; and on this occasion they began a good song in Adam
Puschmann's Stieglitzweis. Then Conrad
(that was the name of the new journeyman) shouted across from the
bench where Master Martin had placed him, "By my troth, what
squalling do you call that? I could fancy I hear mice squeaking
somewhere about the shop. An you mean to sing at all, sing so that
it will cheer the heart and make the work go down well. That's how I
sing a bit now and again." And he began to bellow out a noisy
hunting ditty with its hollas! and hoy, boys! and he imitated the
yelping of the hounds and the shrill shouts of the hunters in such a
clear, keen, stentorian voice that the huge casks rang again and all
the workshop echoed. Master Martin held his hands over his ears, and
Dame Martha's (Valentine's widow) little boys, who were playing in
the shop, crept timorously behind the piled- up staves. Just at this
moment Rose came in, amazed, nay, frightened at the terrible noise;
it could not be called singing anyhow. As soon as Conrad observed
her, he at once stopped, and leaving his bench he approached her and
greeted her with the most polished grace. Then he said in a gentle
voice, whilst an ardent fire gleamed in his bright brown eyes,
"Lovely lady, what a sweet rosy light shone into this humble
workman's hut when you came in! Oh! had I but perceived you sooner,
I had not outraged your tender ears with my wild hunting ditty."
Then, turning to Master Martin and the other journeymen, he cried,
"Oh! do stop your abominable knocking and rattling. As long as this
gracious lady honours us with her presence, let mallets and drivers
rest. Let us only listen to her sweet voice, and with bowed head
hearken to what she may command us, her humble servants." Reinhold
and Frederick looked at each other utterly amazed; but Master Martin
burst out laughing and said, "Well, Conrad, it is now plain that you
are the most ridiculous donkey who ever put on apron. First you come
here and want to break everything to pieces like an uncultivated
giant; then you bellow in such a way as to make our ears tingle;
and, as a fitting climax to all your foolishness, you take my little
daughter Rose for a lady of rank and act like a love-smitten
Junker." Conrad replied, coolly, "Your lovely daughter I know very
well, my worthy Master Martin; but I tell you that she is the most
peerless lady who treads the earth, and if Heaven grant it she would
honour the very noblest of Junkers by permitting him to be her
Paladin in faithful knightly love." Master Martin held his sides,
and it was only by giving vent to his laughter in hums and haws that
he prevented himself from choking. As soon as he could at all speak,
he stammered, "Good, very good, my most excellent youth; you may
continue to regard my daughter as a lady of high rank, I shall not
hinder you; but, irrespective of that, will you have the goodness to
go back to your bench?" Conrad stood as if spell-bound, his eyes
cast down upon the ground; and rubbing his forehead, he said in a
low voice, "Ay, it is so," and did as he was bidden. Rose, as she
always did in the shop, sat down upon a small cask, which Frederick
placed for her, and which Reinhold carefully dusted. At Master
Martin's express desire they again struck up the admirable song in
which they had been so rudely interrupted by Conrad's bluster; but
he went on with his work at the bench, quite still, and entirely
wrapped up in his own thoughts.
When the song came to an end Master Martin said,
"Heaven has endowed you with a noble gift, my brave lads; you would
not believe how highly I value the delectable art of song. Why, once
I wanted to be a Meistersinger myself, but
I could not manage it, even though I tried all I knew how. All that
I gained by my efforts was ridicule and mockery. In 'Voluntary
Singing'32
I either got into false 'appendages,' or 'double notes,' or a wrong
'measure,' or an unsuitable 'embellishment,' or started the wrong
melody altogether. But you will succeed better, and it shall be
said, what the master can't do, his journeymen can. Next Sunday
after the sermon there will be a singing contest by the
Meistersinger at the usual time in St.
Catherine's Church. But before the 'Principal Singing' there will be
a 'Voluntary,' in which you may both of you win praise and honour in
your beautiful art, for any stranger who can sing at all, may freely
take part in this. And, he! Conrad, my journeyman Conrad," cried
Master Martin across to the bench, "would not you also like to get
into the singing- desk and treat our good folk to your fine
hunting-chorus?" Without looking up, Conrad replied, "Mock not, good
master, mock not; everything in its place. Whilst you are being
edified by the Meistersinger, I shall
enjoy myself in my own way on the Allerwiese."
And what Master Martin anticipated came to pass.
Reinhold got into the singing-desk and sang divers songs to divers
tunes, with which all the Meistersingers
were well pleased; and although they were of opinion that the singer
had not made any mistake, yet they had a slight objection to urge
against him--a sort of something foreign about his style, but yet
they could not say exactly in what it consisted. Soon afterwards
Frederick took his seat in the singing-desk; and doffing his
baretta, he stood some seconds looking silently before him; then
after sending a glance at the audience which entered lovely Rose's
bosom like a burning arrow, and caused her to fetch a deep sigh, he
began such a splendid song in Heinrich Frauenlob's33
Zarter Ton, that all the masters agreed
with one accord there was none amongst them who could surpass the
young journeyman.
The singing-school came to an end towards evening,
and Master Martin, in order to finish off the day's enjoyment in
proper style, betook himself in high good-humour to the Allerwiese
along with Rose. The two journeymen, Reinhold and Frederick, were
permitted to accompany them; Rose was walking between them.
Frederick, radiant with delight at the masters' praise, and
intoxicated with happiness, ventured to breathe many a daring word
in Rose's ear which she, however, casting down her eyes in maidenly
coyness, pretended not to hear. Rather she turned to Reinhold, who,
according to his wont, was running on with all sorts of merry
nonsense; nor did he hesitate to place his arm in Rose's. Whilst
even at a considerable distance from the Allerwiese they could hear
noisy shouts and cries. Arrived at the place where the young men
were amusing themselves in all kinds of games, partly chivalric,
they heard the crowd shout time after time, "Won again! won again!
He's the strongest again! Nobody can compete with him." Master
Martin, on working his way through the crowd, perceived that it was
nobody else but his journeyman Conrad who was reaping all this
praise and exciting the people to all this applause. He had beaten
everybody in racing and boxing and throwing the spear. As Martin
came up, Conrad was shouting out and inquiring if there was anybody
who would have a merry bout with him with blunt swords. This
challenge several stout young patricians, well accustomed to this
species of pastime, stepped forward and accepted. But it was not
long before Conrad had again, without much trouble or exertion,
overcome all his opponents; and the applause at his skill and
strength seemed as if it would never end.
The sun had set; the last glow of evening died
away, and twilight began to creep on apace. Master Martin, with Rose
and the two journeymen, had thrown themselves down beside a babbling
spring of water. Reinhold was telling of the wonders of distant
Italy, but Frederick, quiet and happy, had his eyes fixed on pretty
Rose's face. Then Conrad drew near with slow hesitating steps, as if
rather undecided in his own mind whether he should join them or not
Master Martin called to him, "Come along, Conrad, come along, come
along; you have borne yourself bravely on the meadow; that's what I
like in my journeymen, and it's what becomes them. Don't be shy,
lad; come and join us, you have my permission." Conrad cast a
withering glance at his master, who however met it with a
condescending nod; then the young journeyman said moodily, "I am not
the least bit shy of you, and I have not asked your permission
whether I may lie down here or not,--in fact, I have not come to
you at all. All my opponents I have
stretched in the sand in the merry knightly sports, and all I now
wanted was to ask this lovely lady whether she would not honour me
with the beautiful flowers she wears in her bosom, as the prize of
the chivalric contest." Therewith he dropped upon one knee in front
of Rose, and looked her straight and honestly in the face with his
clear brown eyes, and he begged, "O give me those beautiful flowers,
sweet Rose, as the prize of victory; you cannot refuse me that."
Rose at once took the flowers from her bosom and gave them to him,
laughing and saying, "Ay, I know well that a brave knight like you
deserves a token of honour from a lady; and so here, you may have my
withered flowers." Conrad kissed the flowers that were given him,
and then fastened them in his baretta; but Master Martin, rising to
his feet, cried, "There's another of your silly tricks--come, let us
be going home; it is getting dark." Herr Martin strode on first;
Conrad with modest courtly grace took Rose's arm; whilst Reinhold
and Frederick followed them considerably out of humour. People who
met them, stopped and turned round to look after them, saying,
"Marry, look now, look; that's the rich cooper Thomas Martin, with
his pretty little daughter and his stout journeymen. A fine set of
people I call them."
Of Dame Martha's conversation with
Rose about the three
journeymen, Conrad's quarrel with Master Martin.
Generally it is the morning following a holiday
when young girls are wont to enjoy all the pleasure of it, and taste
it, and thoroughly digest it; and this after celebration they seem
to like far better than the actual holiday itself. And so next
morning pretty Rose sat alone in her room with her hands folded on
her lap, and her head bent slightly forward in meditation--her
spindle and embroidery meanwhile resting. Probably she was now
listening to Reinhold's and Frederick's songs, and now watching
Conrad cleverly gaining the victory over his competitors, and now
she saw him coming to her for the prize of victory; and then she
hummed a few lines of a pretty song, and then she whispered, "Do you
want my flowers?" whereat a deeper crimson suffused her cheeks, and
brighter glances made their way through her downcast eyelashes, and
soft sighs stole forth from her inmost heart. Then Dame Martha came
in, and Rose was delighted to be able to tell at full length all
that had taken place in St. Catherine's Church and on the
Allerwiese. When Rose had done speaking, Dame Martha said, smiling,
"Oh! so now, dear Rose, you will soon have to make your choice
between your three handsome lovers." "For God's sake," burst out
Rose, quite frightened, and flushing hotly all over her face, "for
mercy's sake, Dame Martha, what do you mean by that? I--three
lovers!" "Don't take on so," went on Dame Martha, "don't take on in
that way, dear Rose, as if you knew nothing, as if you could guess
nothing. Why, where do you put your eyes, girl? you must be quite
blind not to see that our journeymen. Reinhold, Frederick, and
Conrad--yes, all three of them--are madly in love with you." "What a
fancy, to be sure, Dame Martha," whispered Rose, holding her hands
before her face. Then Dame Martha knelt down before her, and threw
her arm about her, saying, "Come, my pretty, bashful child, take
your hands away, and look me straight in the eyes, and then tell me
you have not long ago perceived that you fill both the heart and the
mind of each of our journeymen, deny that if you can. Nay, I tell
you, you can't do it; and it would, i' faith, be a truly wonderful
thing if a maiden's eyes did not see a thing of that sort. Why, when
you go into the shop, their eyes are off their work and flying
across to you in a minute, and they bustle and stir about with new
life. And Reinhold and Frederick begin their best songs, and even
wild Conrad grows quiet and gentle; each tries to invent some excuse
to approach nearer to you, and when you honour one of them with a
sweet look or a kindly word, how his eyes sparkle, and his face
flushes! Come now, my pet, is it not nice to have such handsome
fellows all making love to you? But whether you will choose one of
the three or which it will be, that I cannot indeed say, for you are
good and kind to them all alike, and yet--and yet--but I must not
say more. Now an you come to me and said, 'O Dame Martha, give me
your advice, to which of these young men, who are all wanting me,
shall I give my hand and heart?' then I should of course answer, 'If
your heart does not speak out loudly and distinctly. It's this or
it's that, why, let them all three go.' I must say Reinhold pleases
me right well, and so does Frederick, and so does Conrad; and then
again on the other hand I have something to say against each of
them. In fact, dear Rose, when I see them working away so bravely, I
always think of my poor Valentine; and I must say that, if he could
not perhaps produce any better work, there was yet quite a different
kind of swing and style in all that he did do. You could see all his
heart was in his work; but with these young fellows it always seems
to me as if they only worked so, so--as if they had in their heads
different things altogether from their work; nay, it almost strikes
me as if it were a burden which they have voluntarily taken up, and
were now bearing with sturdy courage. Of them all I can get on best
with Frederick; he's such a faithful, affectionate fellow. He is the
one who seems to belong to us most; I understand all that he says.
And then his love for you is so still, and as shy as a good child's;
he hardly dares to look at you, and blushes if you only say a single
word to him; and that's what I like so much in the dear lad." A tear
seemed to glisten in Rose's eye as Dame Martha said this. She stood
up, and turning to the window, said, "I like Frederick very much,
but you must not pass over Reinhold contemptuously." "I never dreamt
of doing so," replied Dame Martha, "for Reinhold is by a long way
the handsomest of all. And what eyes he has! And when he looks you
through and through with his bright glances--no, it's more than you
can endure. And yet there's something so strange and peculiar in his
character, it quite makes me shiver at times, and makes me quite
afraid of him. When Reinhold is working in the shop, I should think
Herr Martin, when he tells him to do this or do that, must always
feel as I should if anybody were to put a bright pan in my kitchen
all glittering with gold and precious stones, and should bid me use
it like any ordinary common pan--why, I should hardly dare to touch
it at all. He tells his stories and talks and talks, and it all
sounds like sweet music, and you are quite carried away by it, but
when I sit down to think seriously about what he has been saying, I
find I haven't understood a single word. And then when he now and
again jests in the way we do, and I think now he's just like us,
then all at once he looks so distinguished that I get really afraid
of him. And yet I can't say that he puffs himself up in the way that
many of our Junkers or patricians do; no, it's something else
altogether different. In a word, it strikes me, by my troth, as if
he held intercourse with higher spirits, as if he belonged, in fact,
to another world. Conrad is a wild overbearing fellow, and yet there
is something confoundedly distinguished about him as well; it
doesn't agree with the cooper's apron somehow. And he always acts as
if nobody but he had to give orders, and as if the others must obey
him. In the short time that he has been here he has got so far that
when he bellows at Master Martin in his loud ringing voice, his
master generally does what he wishes. But at the same time he is so
good-natured and so thoroughly honest that you can't bear ill-will
against him; rather, I must say, that in spite of his wildness, I
almost like him better than I do Reinhold, for even if he does speak
fearfully grand, you can yet understand him very well. I wager he
has once been a campaigner, he may say what he likes. That's why he
knows so much about arms, and has even got something of knights'
ways about him, which doesn't suit him at all badly. Now do tell me,
Rose dear, without any ifs and ands, which of the three journeymen
you like best?" "Don't ask me such searching questions, dear Dame
Martha," answered Rose. "But of this I am quite sure, that Reinhold
does not stir up in me the same feelings that he does in you. It's
perfectly true, too, that he is altogether different from his
equals; and when he talks I could fancy I enter into a beautiful
garden full of bright and magnificent flowers and blossoms and
fruits, such as are not to be found on earth, and I like to be
amongst them. Since Reinhold has been here I see many things in a
different light, and lots of things that were once dim and formless
in my mind are now so bright and clear that I can easily distinguish
them." Dame Martha rose to her feet, and shaking her finger at Rose
as she went out of the room, said, "Ah! ah! Rose, so Reinhold is the
favourite then? I didn't think it, I didn't even dream it." Rose
made answer as she accompanied her as far as the door, "Pray, dear
Dame Martha, think nothing, dream nothing, but leave all to the
future. What it brings is the will of God,
and to that everybody must bow humbly and gratefully."
Meanwhile it was becoming extremely lively in
Master Martin's workshop. In order to execute all his orders he had
engaged with ordinary labourers and taken in some apprentices, and
they all hammered and knocked till the din could be heard far and
wide. Reinhold had finished his calculations and measurements for
the great cask that was to be built for the Bishop of Bamberg,
whilst Frederick and Conrad had set it up so cleverly that Master
Martin's heart laughed in his body, and he cried again and again,
"Now that I call a grand piece of work; that'll be the best little
cask I've ever made--except my masterpiece." Now the three
apprentices stood driving the hoops on to the fitted staves, and the
whole place rang again with the din of their mallets. Old Valentine
was busy plying his draw-knife, and Dame Martha, her two youngest on
her knee, sat just behind Conrad, whilst the other wideawake little
rascals were shouting and making a noise, tumbling the hoops about,
and chasing each other. In fact, there was so much hubbub and so
much vigorous hard work going on that hardly anybody noticed old
Herr Johannes Holzschuer as he stepped into the shop. Master Martin
went to meet him, and politely inquired what he desired. "Why, in
the first place," said Holzschuer, "I want to have a look at my dear
Frederick again, who is working away so lustily yonder. And then,
goodman Master Martin, I want a stout cask for my wine-cellar, which
I will ask you to make for me. Why look you, that cask they are now
setting up there is exactly the sort of thing I want; you can let me
have that, you've only got to name the price." Reinhold, who had
grown tired and had been resting a few minutes down in the shop, and
was now preparing to ascend the scaffolding again, heard
Holzschuer's words and said, turning his head towards the old
gentleman, "Marry, my friend Herr Holzschuer, you need not set your
heart upon this cask; we are making it for his Lordship the Bishop
of Bamberg." Master Martin, his arms folded on his back, his left
foot planted forward, his head thrown back in his neck, blinked at
the cask and said proudly, "My dear master, you might have seen from
the carefully selected wood and the great pains taken in the work
that a masterpiece like that was meant for a prince's34
cellar. My journeyman Reinhold has said the truth; don't set your
heart on a piece of work like that. But when the vintage is over I
will get you a plain strong little cask made, such as will be
suitable for your cellar." Old Holzschuer, incensed at Master
Martin's pride, replied that his gold pieces weighed just as much as
the Bishop of Bamberg's, and that he hoped he could get good work
elsewhere for ready money. Master Martin, although fuming with rage,
controlled himself with difficulty; he would not by any means like
to offend old Herr Holzschuer, who stood so high in the esteem both
of the Council and of all the burghers. At this moment Conrad struck
mightier blows than ever with his mallet, so that the whole shop
rang and cracked; then Master Martin's internal rage boiled over,
and he shouted vehemently, "Conrad, you blockhead, what do you mean
by striking so blindly and heedlessly? do you mean to break my cask
in pieces?" "Ho! ho!" replied Conrad, looking round defiantly at his
master, "Ho! ho! my comical little master, and why should I not?"
And therewith he dealt such a terrible blow at the cask that the
strongest hoop sprang, rattling, and knocked Reinhold down from the
narrow plank on the scaffolding; and it was further evident from the
hollow echo that a stave had been broken as well. Completely
mastered by his furious anger, Master Martin snatched out of
Valentine's hand the bar he was shaving, and striding towards the
cask, dealt Conrad a good sound stroke with it on the back,
shouting, "You cursed dog!" As soon as Conrad felt the blow he
wheeled sharply round, and after standing for a moment as if bereft
of his senses, his eyes blazed up with fury, he ground his teeth,
and screamed, "Struck! struck!" Then at one bound he was down from
the scaffolding, had snatched up an adze that lay on the floor, and
aimed a powerful stroke at his master; had not Frederick pulled
Martin on one side the blow would have split his head; as it was,
the adze only grazed his arm, from which, however, the blood at once
began to spurt out. Martin, fat and helpless as he was, lost his
equilibrium and fell over the bench, at which one of the apprentices
was working, into the floor. They all threw themselves upon Conrad,
who was frantic, flourishing his bloody adze in the air, and
shouting and screaming in a terrible voice, "Let him go to hell! To
hell with him!" Hurling them all off with the strength of a giant,
he was preparing to deal a second blow at his poor master, who was
gasping for breath and groaning on the floor,--a blow that would
have completely done for him--when Rose, pale as a corpse with
fright, appeared in the shop-door. As soon as Conrad observed her he
stood as if turned to a pillar of stone, the adze suspended in the
air. Then he threw the tool away from him, struck his hands together
upon his chest, and cried in a voice that went to everybody's heart,
"Oh, good God! good God! what have I done?" and away he rushed out
of the shop. No one thought of following him.
Now poor Master Martin was after some difficulty
lifted up; it was found, however, that the adze had only penetrated
into the thick fleshy part of the arm, and the wound could not
therefore be called serious. Old Herr Holzschuer, whom Martin had
involved with him in his fall, was pulled out from beneath the
shavings, and Dame Martha's children, who ceased not to scream and
cry over good Father Martin, were appeased as far as that could be
done. As for Martin himself, he was quite dazed, and said if only
that devil of a bad journeyman had not spoilt his fine cask he
should not make much account of the wound.
Sedan chairs were brought for the old gentlemen,
for Holzschuer also had bruised himself rather in his fall. He
hurled reproaches at a trade in which they employed such murderous
tools, and conjured Frederick to come back to his beautiful art of
casting and working in the precious metals, and the sooner the
better.
As soon as the dusk of evening began to creep up
over the sky, Frederick, and along with him Reinhold, whom the hoop
had struck rather sharply, and who felt as if every limb was
benumbed, strode back into the town in very low spirits. Then they
heard a soft sighing and groaning behind a hedge. They stood still,
and a tall figure at once rose up; they immediately recognised
Conrad, and began to withdraw timidly. But he addressed them in a
tearful voice, saying, "You need not be so frightened at me, my good
comrades; of course you take me for a devilish murderous brute, but
I am not--indeed I am not so. I could not do otherwise; I
ought to have struck down the fat old
master, and by rights I ought to go along with you and do it
now, if I only could. But no, no; it's all
over. Remember me to pretty Rose, whom I love so above all reason.
Tell her I will bear her flowers on my heart all my life long, I
will adorn myself with them when I--but she will perhaps hear of me
again some day. Farewell! farewell! my good, brave comrades." And
Conrad ran away across the field without once stopping.
Reinhold said, "There is something peculiar about
this young fellow; we can't weigh or measure this deed by any
ordinary standard. Perhaps the future will unfold to us the secret
that has lain heavy upon his breast."
Reinhold leaves Master Martin's
house.
If formerly there had been merry days in Master
Martin's workshop, so now they were proportionately dull. Reinhold,
incapable of work, remained confined to his room; Martin, his
wounded arm in a sling, was incessantly abusing the good-for-nothing
stranger-apprentice, and railing at him for the mischief he had
wrought Rose, and even Dame Martha and her children, avoided the
scene of the rash savage deed, and so Frederick's blows fell dull
and melancholy enough, like a woodcutter's in a lonely wood in
winter time, for to Frederick it was now left to finish the big cask
alone, and a hard task it was.
And soon his mind and heart were possessed by a
profound sadness, for he believed he had now clear proofs of what he
had for a long time feared. He no longer had any doubt that Rose
loved Reinhold. Not only had she formerly shown many a kindness to
Reinhold alone, and to him alone given many a sweet word, but
now--it was as plain as noonday-- since Reinhold could no longer
come to work. Rose too no longer thought of going out, but preferred
to stay indoors, no doubt to wait upon and take good care of her
lover. On Sundays, when all the rest set out gaily, and Master
Martin, who had recovered to some extent of his wound, invited him
to walk with him and Rose to the Allerwiese, he refused the
invitation; but, burdened with trouble and the bitter pain of
disappointed love, he hastened off alone to the village and the hill
where he had first met with Reinhold. He threw himself down in the
tall grass where the flowers grew, and as he thought how that the
beautiful star of hope which had shone before him all along his
homeward path had now suddenly set in the blackness of night after
he had reached his goal, and as he thought how that this step which
he had taken was like the vain efforts of a dreamer stretching out
his yearning arms after an empty vision of air,--the tears fell from
his eyes and dropped upon the flowers, which bent their little heads
as if sorrowing for the young journeyman's great unhappiness.
Without his being exactly conscious of it, the painful sighs which
escaped his labouring breast assumed the form of words, of musical
notes, and he sang this song:--
My star of hope,
Where hast thou gone?
Alas! thy glory rises up--
Thy glory sweet, far from me now--
And pours its light on others down.
Ye rustling evening breezes, rouse you,
Blow on my breast,
Awake all joy that kills,
Awake all pain that brings to death,
So that my sore and bleeding heart,
Steeped to the core in bitter tears,
May break in yearning comfortless.
Why whisper ye, ye darksome trees?
So softly and like friends together?
And why, O golden skirts of sky,
Look ye so kindly down on me?
Show me my grave;
For that is now my haven of hope,
Where I shall calmly, softly sleep.
And as it often happens that the very greatest
trouble, if only it can find vent in tears and words, softens down
into a gentle melancholy, mild and painless, and that often a faint
glimmer of hope appears then in the soul, so it was with Frederick;
when he had sung this song he felt wonderfully strengthened and
comforted The evening breezes and the darksome trees that he had
called upon in his song rustled and whispered words of consolation;
and like the sweet dreams of distant glory or of distant happiness,
golden streaks of light worked their way up across the dusky sky.
Frederick rose to his feet, and went down the hill into the village.
He almost fancied that Reinhold was walking beside him as he did on
the day they first found each other; and all the words which
Reinhold had spoken again recurred to his mind. And as his thoughts
dwelt upon Reinhold's story about the contest between the two
painters who were friends, then the scales fell from his eyes. There
was no doubt about it; Reinhold must have seen Rose before and loved
her. It was only his love for her which had brought him to Nuremberg
to Master Martin's, and by the contest between the two painters he
meant simply and solely their own--Reinhold's and Frederick's--rival
wooing of beautiful Rose. The words that Reinhold had then spoken
rang again in his ears,--"Honest contention for the same prize,
without any malicious reserve, ought to unite true friends and knit
their hearts still closer together, instead of setting them at
variance. There should never be any place in noble minds for petty
envy or malicious hatred." "Yes," exclaimed Frederick aloud, "yes,
friend of my heart, I will appeal to you without any reserve, you
yourself shall tell me if all hope for me is lost."
It was approaching noon when Frederick tapped at
Reinhold's door. As all remained still within, he pushed open the
door, which was not locked as usual, and went in. But the moment he
did so he stood rooted to the spot. Upon an easel, the glorious rays
of the morning sun falling upon it, was a splendid picture, Rose in
all the pride of her beauty and charms, and life size. The
maul-stick lying on the table, and the wet colours of the palette,
showed that some one had been at work on the picture quite recently.
"O Rose, Rose!--By Heaven!" sighed Frederick. Reinhold, who had
entered behind him unperceived, clapped him on the shoulder and
asked, smiling, "Well, now, Frederick, what do you say to my
picture!" Then Frederick pressed him to his heart and cried, "Oh you
splendid fellow--you are indeed a noble artist. Yes, it's all clear
to me now. You have won the prize--for which I--poor me!--had the
hardihood to struggle. Oh! what am I in comparison with you? And
what is my art against yours? And yet I too had some fine ideas in
my head. Don't laugh at me, dear Reinhold; but, look you, I thought
what a grand thing it would be to model Rose's lovely figure and
cast it in the finest silver. But that's all childishness, whilst
you--you--Oh! how sweetly she smiles upon you, and how delightfully
you have brought out all her beauty. O Reinhold! Reinhold! you
happy, happy fellow! Ay, and it has all come about as you said long
ago. We have both striven for the prize and you have won it: you
could not help but win it, and I shall still continue to be your
friend with all my heart But I must leave this house--my home: I
cannot bear it, I should die if I were to see Rose again. Please
forgive me, my dear, dear, noble friend. To-day, this very moment, I
will go--go away into the wide world, where my trouble, my
unbearable misery, is sending me." And thus speaking, Frederick was
hastening out of the apartment, but Reinhold held him fast, saying
gently, "You shall not go; for things may turn out quite different
from what you think. It is now time for me to tell you all that I
have hitherto kept silence about. That I am not a cooper but a
painter you are now well aware, and I hope a glance at this picture
will convince you that I am not to be ranked amongst the inferior
artists. Whilst still young I went to Italy, the land of art; there
I had the good fortune to be accepted as a pupil by renowned
masters, who fostered into living fire the spark which glowed within
me. Thus it came to pass that I rapidly rose into fame, that my
pictures became celebrated throughout all Italy, and the powerful
Duke of Florence35
summoned me to his court. At that time I would not hear a word about
German art, and without having seen any of your pictures, I talked a
good deal of nonsense about the coldness, the bad drawing, and the
hardness of your Dürer and your Cranach.36
But one day a picture-dealer brought a small picture of the Madonna
by old Albrecht to the Duke's gallery, and it made a powerful and
wonderful impression upon me, so that I turned away completely from
the voluptuousness of Italian art, and from that very hour
determined to go back to my native Germany and study there the
masterpieces upon which my heart was now set I came to Nuremberg
here, and when I beheld Rose I seemed to see the Madonna who had so
wonderfully stirred my heart, walking in bodily form on earth. I had
the same experiences as you, dear Frederick; the bright flames of
love flashed up and consumed me, mind and heart and soul. I saw
nothing, I thought of nothing, but Rose; all else had vanished from
my mind; and even art itself only retained its hold upon me in so
far as it enabled me to draw and paint Rose again and again--
hundreds of times. I would have approached the maiden in the free
Italian way; but all my attempts proved fruitless. There was no
means of securing a footing of intimacy in Master Martin's house in
any insidious way. At last I made up my mind to sue for Rose
directly, when I learned that Master Martin had determined to give
his daughter only to a good master-cooper. Straightway I formed the
adventurous resolve to go and learn the trade of cooperage in
Strasburg, and then to come and work in Master Martin's work-shop. I
left all the rest to the ordering of Providence. You know in what
way I carried out my resolve; but I must now also tell you what
Master Martin said to me some days ago. He said I should make a
skilful cooper and should be a right dear and worthy son-in-law, for
he saw plainly that I was seeking to gain Rose's favour, and that
she liked me right well." "Can it then indeed well be otherwise?"
cried Frederick, painfully agitated "Yes, yes, Rose will be
yours; how came I, unhappy wretch that I
am, ever to hope for such happiness?" "You are forgetting, my
brother," Reinhold went on to say; "you are forgetting that Rose
herself has not confirmed this, which our cunning Master Martin no
doubt is well aware of. True it is that Rose has always shown
herself kind and charming towards me, but a loving heart betrays
itself in other ways. Promise me, brother, to remain quiet for three
days longer, and to go to your work in the shop as usual. I also
could now go to work again, but since I have been busy with, and
wrapt up in this picture, I feel an indescribable disgust at that
coarse rough work out yonder. And, what is more, I can never lay
hand upon mallet again, let come what will. On the third day I will
frankly tell you how matters stand between me and Rose. If I should
really be the lucky one to whom she has given her love, then you may
go your way and make trial of the experience that time can cure the
deepest wounds." Frederick promised to await his fate.
On the third day Frederick's heart beat with fear
and anxious expectation; he had in the meantime carefully avoided
meeting Rose. Like one in a dream he crept about the workshop, and
his awkwardness gave Master Martin, no doubt, just cause for his
grumbling and scolding, which was not by any means customary with
him. Moreover, the master seemed to have encountered something that
completely spoilt all his good spirits. He talked a great deal about
base tricks and ingratitude, without clearly expressing what he
meant by it. When at length evening came, and Frederick was
returning towards the town, he saw not far from the gate a horseman
coming to meet him, whom he recognised to be Reinhold. As soon as
the latter caught sight of Frederick he cried, "Ha! ha! I meet you
just as I wanted." And leaping from his horse, he slung the rein
over his arm, and grasped his friend's hand. "Let us walk along a
space beside each other," he said. "Now I can tell you what luck I
have had with my suit." Frederick observed that Reinhold wore the
same clothes which he had worn when they first met each other, and
that the horse bore a portmanteau. Reinhold looked pale and
troubled. "Good luck to you, brother," he began somewhat wildly;
"good luck to you. You can now go and hammer away lustily at your
casks; I will yield the field to you. I have just said adieu to
pretty Rose and worthy Master Martin." "What!" exclaimed Frederick,
whilst an electric thrill, as it were, shot through all his
limbs--"what! you are going away now that Master Martin is willing
to take you for his son-in-law, and Rose loves you?" Reinhold
replied, "That was only a delusion, brother, which your jealousy has
led you into. It has now come out that Rose would have had me simply
to show her dutifulness and obedience, but there's not a spark of
love glowing in her ice-cold heart. Ha! ha! I should have made a
fine cooper--that I should. Week-days scraping hoops and planing
staves, Sundays walking beside my honest wife to St. Catherine's or
St. Sebald's, and in the evening to the Allerwiese, year after
year"---- "Nay, mock not," said Frederick, interrupting Reinhold's
loud laughter, "mock not at the excellent burgher's simple, harmless
life. If Rose does not really love you, it is not her fault; you are
so passionate, so wild." "You are right," said Reinhold; "It is only
the silly way I have of making as much noise as a spoilt child when
I conceive I have been hurt. You can easily imagine that I spoke to
Rose of my love and of her father's good-will. Then the tears
started from her eyes, and her hand trembled in mine. Turning her
face away, she whispered, 'I must submit to my father's will'--that
was enough for me. My peculiar resentment, dear Frederick, will now
let you see into the depths of my heart; I must tell you that my
striving to win Rose was a deception, imposed upon me by my
wandering mind. After I had finished Rose's picture my heart grew
calm; and often, strange enough, I fancied that Rose was now the
picture, and that the picture was become the real Rose. I detested
my former coarse, rude handiwork; and when I came so intimately into
contact with the incidents of common life, getting one's
'mastership' and getting married, I felt as if I were going to be
confined in a dungeon and chained to the stocks. How indeed can the
divine being whom I carry in my heart ever be my wife? No, she shall
for ever stand forth glorious in youth, grace, and beauty, in the
pictures--the masterpieces--which my restless spirit shall create.
Oh! how I long for such things! How came I ever to turn away from my
divine art? O thou glorious land, thou home of Art, soon again will
I revel amidst thy cool and balmy airs." The friends had reached the
place where the road which Reinhold intended to take turned to the
left. "Here we will part," cried Reinhold, pressing Frederick to his
heart in a long warm embrace; then he threw himself upon horseback
and galloped away. Frederick stood watching him without uttering a
word, and then, agitated by the most unaccountable feelings, he
slowly wended his way homewards.
How Frederick was driven out of
the workshop by
Master Martin.
The next day Master Martin was working away at the
great cask for the Bishop of Bamberg in moody silence, nor could
Frederick, who now felt the full bitterness of parting from
Reinhold, utter a word either, still less break out into song. At
last Master Martin threw aside his mallet, and crossing his arms,
said in a muffled voice, "Well, Reinhold's gone. He was a
distinguished painter, and has only been making a fool of me with
his pretence of being a cooper. Oh! that I had only had an inkling
of it when he came into my house along with you and bore himself so
smart and clever, wouldn't I just have shown him the door! Such an
open honest face, and so much deceit and treachery in his mind!
Well, he's gone, and now you will faithfully and honestly stick to
me and my handiwork. Who knows whether you may not become something
more to me still--when you have become a skilful master and Rose
will have you--well, you understand me, and may try to win Rose's
favour." Forthwith he took up his mallet and worked away lustily
again. Frederick did not know how to account for it, but Master
Martin's words rent his breast, and a strange feeling of anxiety
arose in his mind, obscuring every glimmer of hope. After a long
interval Rose made a first appearance again in the workshop, but was
very reserved, and, as Frederick to his mortification could see, her
eyes were red with weeping. She has been weeping for him, she does
love him, thus he said within himself, and he was quite unable to
raise his eyes to her whom he loved with such an unutterable love.
The mighty cask was finished, and now Master
Martin began to be blithe and in good humour again as he regarded
this very successful piece of work. "Yes, my son," said he, clapping
Frederick on the shoulder, "yes, my son, I will keep my word: if you
succeed in winning Rose's favour and build a good sound masterpiece,
you shall be my son-in-law. And then you can also join the noble
guild of the Meistersinger, and so win you
great honour."
Master Martin's business now increased so very
greatly that he had to engage two other journeymen, clever workmen,
but rude fellows, quite demoralised by their long wanderings. Coarse
jests now echoed in the workshop instead of the many pleasant talks
of former days, and in place of Frederick and Reinhold's agreeable
singing were now heard low and obscene ditties. Rose shunned the
workshop, so that Frederick saw her but seldom, and only for a few
moments at a time. And then when he looked at her with melancholy
longing and sighed, "Oh! if I might talk to you again, dear Rose, if
you were only as friendly again as at the time when Reinhold was
still with us!" she cast down her eyes in shy confusion and
whispered "Have you something to tell me, dear Frederick?" And
Frederick stood like a statue, unable to speak a word, and the
golden opportunity was quickly past, like a flash of lightning that
darts across the dark red glow of the evening, and is gone almost
before it is observed.
Master Martin now insisted that Frederick should
begin his masterpiece. He had himself sought out the finest, purest
oak wood, without the least vein or flaw, which had been over five
years in his wood-store, and nobody was to help Frederick except old
Valentine. Not only was Frederick put more and more out of taste
with his work by the rough journeymen, but he felt a tightness in
his throat as he thought that this masterpiece was to decide over
his whole life long. The same peculiar feeling of anxiety which he
had experienced when Master Martin was praising his faithful
devotion to his handiwork now grew into a more and more distinct
shape in a quite dreadful way. He now knew that he should fail
miserably and disgracefully in his work; his mind, now once more
completely taken up with his own art, was fundamentally averse to
it. He could not forget Reinhold and Rose's picture. His own art now
put on again her full glory in his eyes. Often as he was working,
the crushing sense of the unmanliness of his conduct quite
overpowered him, and, alleging that he was unwell, he ran off to St.
Sebald's Church. There he spent hours in studying Peter Fischer's
marvellous monument, and he would exclaim, as if ravished with
delight, "Oh, good God! Is there anything on earth more glorious
than to conceive and execute such a work?" And when he had to go
back again to his staves and hoops, and remembered that in this way
only was Rose to be won, he felt as if burning talons were rending
his bleeding heart, and as if he must perish in the midst of his
unspeakable agony. Reinhold often came to him in his dreams and
brought him striking designs for artistic castings, into which
Rose's form was worked in most ingenious ways, now as a flower, now
as an angel, with little wings. But there was always something
wanting; he discovered that it was Rose's heart which Reinhold had
forgotten, and that he added to the design himself. Then he thought
he saw all the flowers and leaves of the work move, singing and
diffusing their sweet fragrances, and the precious metals showed him
Rose's likeness in their glittering surface. Then he stretched out
his arms longingly after his beloved, but the likeness vanished as
if in dim mist, and Rose herself, pretty Rose, pressed him to her
loving heart in an ecstasy of passionate love.
His condition with respect to the unfortunate
cooperage grew worse and worse, and more and more unbearable, and he
went to his old master Johannes Holzschuer to seek comfort and
assistance. He allowed Frederick to begin in his shop a piece of
work which he, Frederick, had thought out and for which he had for
some time been saving up his earnings, so that he could procure the
necessary gold and silver. Thus it happened that Frederick was
scarcely ever at work in Martin's shop, and his deathly pale face
gave credence to his pretext that he was suffering from a consuming
illness. Months went past, and his masterpiece, his great two-tun
cask, was not advanced any further. Master Martin was urgent upon
him that he should at least do as much as his strength would allow,
and Frederick really saw himself compelled to go to the hated
cutting block again and take the adze in hand. Whilst he was
working, Master Martin drew near and examined the staves at which he
was working; and he got quite red in the face and cried, "What do
you call this? What work is this, Frederick? Has a journeyman been
preparing these staves for his 'mastership,' or a stupid apprentice
who only put his nose into the workshop three days ago? Pull
yourself together, lad: what devil has entered into you that you are
making a bungle of things like this? My good oak wood,--and this
your masterpiece! Oh! you awkward, imprudent boy!" Overmastered by
the torture and agony which raged within him, Frederick was unable
to contain himself any longer; so, throwing the adze from him he
said, "Master, it's all over; no, even though it cost me my life,
though I perish in unutterable misery, I cannot work any longer--no,
I cannot work any longer at this coarse trade. An irresistible power
is drawing me back to my own glorious art. Your daughter Rose I love
unspeakably, more than anybody else on earth can ever love her. It
is only for her sake that I ever entered upon this hateful work. I
have now lost her, I know, and shall soon die of grief for love of
her; but I can't help it, I must go back to my own glorious art, to
my excellent old master, Johannes Holzschuer, whom I so shamefully
deserted." Master Martin's eyes blazed like flashing candles. Scarce
able to speak for rage, he stammered, "What! you too! Deceit and
treachery! Dupe me like this! coarse
trade--cooperage! Out of my eyes, you disgraceful fellow; begone
with you!" And therewith he laid hold of poor Frederick by the
shoulders and threw him out of the shop, which the rude journeymen
and apprentices greeted with mocking laughter. But old Valentine
folded his hands, and gazing thoughtfully before him, said, "I've
noticed, that I have, the good fellow had something higher in his
mind than our casks." Dame Martha shed many tears, and her boys
cried and screamed for Frederick, who had often played kindly with
them and brought them several lots of sweets.
Conclusion.
However angry Master Martin might feel towards
Reinhold and Frederick, he could not but admit to himself that along
with them all joy and all pleasure had disappeared from the
workshop. Every day he was annoyed and provoked by the new
journeymen. He had to look after every little trifle, and it cost
him no end of trouble and exertion to get even the smallest amount
of work done to his mind. Quite tired out with the cares of the day,
he often sighed, "O Reinhold! O Frederick! I wish you had not so
shamefully deceived me, I wish you had been good coopers." Things at
last got so bad that he often contemplated the idea of giving up
business altogether.
As he was sitting at home one evening in one of
these gloomy moods, Herr Jacobus Paumgartner and along with him
Master Johannes Holzschuer came in quite unexpectedly. He saw at
once that they were going to talk about Frederick; and in fact Herr
Paumgartner very soon turned the conversation upon him, and Master
Holzschuer at once began to say all he could in praise of the young
fellow. It was his opinion that Frederick with his industry and his
gifts would certainly not only make an excellent goldsmith, but also
a most admirable art-caster, and would tread in Peter Fischer's
footsteps. And now Herr Paumgartner began to reproach Master Martin
in no gentle terms for his unkind treatment of his poor journeyman
Frederick, and they both urged him to give Rose to the young fellow
to wife when he was become a skilful goldsmith and caster,--that is,
of course, in case she looked with favour upon him,--for his
affection for her tingled in every vein he had. Master Martin let
them have their say out, then he doffed his cap and said, smiling,
"That's right, my good sirs, I'm glad you stand up so bravely for
the journeyman who so shamefully deceived me. That, however, I will
forgive him; but don't ask that I should alter my fixed resolve for
his sake; Rose can never be anything to him." At this moment Rose
entered the room, pale and with eyes red with weeping, and she
silently placed wine and glasses on the table. "Well then," began
Herr Holzschuer, "I must let poor Frederick have his own way; he
wants to leave home for ever. He has done a beautiful piece of work
at my shop, which, if you, my good master, will allow, he will
present to Rose as a keepsake; look at it." Whereupon Master
Holzschuer produced a small artistically-chased silver cup, and
handed it to Master Martin, who, a great lover of costly vessels and
such like, took it and examined it on all sides with much
satisfaction. And indeed a more splendid piece of silver work than
this little cup could hardly be seen. Delicate chains of vine-leaves
and roses were intertwined round about it, and pretty angels peeped
up out of the roses and the bursting buds, whilst within, on the
gilded bottom of the cup, were engraved angels lovingly caressing
each other. And when the clear bright wine was poured into the cup,
the little angels seemed to dance up and down as if playing prettily
together. "It is indeed an elegant piece of work," said Master
Martin, "and I will keep it if Frederick will take the double of
what it is worth in good gold pieces." Thus speaking, he filled the
cup and raised it to his lips. At this moment the door was softly
opened, and Frederick stepped in, his countenance pale and stamped
with the bitter, bitter pain of separating for ever from her he held
dearest on earth. As soon as Rose saw him she uttered a loud
piercing cry, "O my dearest Frederick!" and fell almost fainting on
his breast. Master Martin set down the cup, and on seeing Rose in
Frederick's arms opened his eyes wide as if he saw a ghost. Then he
again took up the cup without speaking a word, and looked into it;
but all at once he leapt from his seat and cried in a loud voice,
"Rose, Rose, do you love Frederick?" "Oh!" whispered Rose, "I cannot
any longer conceal it, I love him as I love my own life; my heart
nearly broke when you sent him away." "Then embrace your betrothed,
Frederick; yes, yes, your betrothed, Frederick," cried Master
Martin. Paumgartner and Holzschuer looked at each other utterly
bewildered with astonishment, but Master Martin, holding the cup in
his hand, went on, "By the good God, has it not all come to pass as
the old lady prophesied?--
'A vessel fair to see he'll bring,
In which the spicy liquid foams,
And bright, bright angels gaily sing.
... The vessel fair with golden grace,
Lo! him who brings it in the house,
Thou wilt reward with sweet embrace,
And, an thy lover be but true,
Thou need'st not wait thy father's kiss.'
O Stupid fool I have been! Here is the vessel
fair to see, the angels-- the lover--Ay! ay! gentlemen; it's all
right now, all right now; my son-in-law is found."
Whoever has had his mind ever confused by a bad
dream, so that he thought he was lying in the deep cold blackness of
the grave, and suddenly he awakens in the midst of the bright
spring-tide full of fragrance and sunshine and song, and she whom he
holds dearest on earth has come to him and has cast her arms about
him, and he can look up into the heaven of her lovely face,--whoever
has at any time experienced this will understand Frederick's
feelings, will comprehend his exceeding great happiness. Unable to
speak a word, he held Rose tightly clasped in his arms as though he
would never let her leave him, until she at length gently disengaged
herself and led him to her father. Then he found his voice, "O my
dear master, is it all really true? You will give me Rose to wife,
and I may go back to my art?" "Yes, yes," said Master Martin, "you
may in truth believe it; can I do any other since you have fulfilled
my old grandmother's prophecy? You need not now of course go on with
your masterpiece." Then Frederick, perfectly radiant with delight,
smiled and said, "No, my dear master, if it be pleasing to you I
will now gladly and in good spirits finish my big cask--my last
piece of work in cooperage--and then I will go back to the
melting-furnace." "Yes, my good brave son," replied Master Martin,
his eyes sparkling with joy, "yes, finish your masterpiece, and then
we'll have the wedding."
Frederick kept his word faithfully, and finished
the two-tun cask; and all the masters declared that it would be no
easy task to do a finer piece of work, whereat Master Martin was
delighted down to the ground, and was moreover of opinion that
Providence could not have found for him a more excellent son-in-law.
At length the wedding day was come, Frederick's
masterpiece stood in the entrance hall filled with rich wine, and
crowned with garlands. The masters of the trade, with the syndic
Jacobus Paumgartner at their head, put in an appearance along with
their housewives, followed by the master goldsmiths. All was ready
for the procession to begin its march to St. Sebald's Church, where
the pair were to be married, when a sound of trumpets was heard in
the street, and a neighing and stamping of horses before Martin's
house. Master Martin hastened to the bay-window. It was Herr
Heinrich von Spangenberg, in gay holiday attire, who had pulled up
in front of the house; a few paces behind him, on a high- spirited
horse, sat a young and splendid knight, his glittering sword at his
side, and high-coloured feathers in his baretta, which was also
adorned with flashing jewels. Beside the knight, Herr Martin
perceived a wondrously beautiful lady, likewise splendidly dressed,
seated on a jennet the colour of fresh-fallen snow. Pages and
attendants in brilliant coats formed a circle round about them. The
trumpet ceased, and old Herr von Spangenberg shouted up to him,
"Aha! aha! Master Martin, I have not come either for your wine
cellar or for your gold pieces, but only because it is Rose's
wedding day. Will you let me in, good master?" Master Martin
remembered his own words very well, and was a little ashamed of
himself; but he hurried down to receive the Junker. The old
gentleman dismounted, and after greeting him, entered the house.
Some of the pages sprang forward, and upon their arms the lady
slipped down from her palfrey; the knight gave her his hand and
followed the old gentleman. But when Master Martin looked at the
young knight he recoiled three paces, struck his hands together, and
cried, "Good God! Conrad!" "Yes, Master Martin," said the knight,
smiling, "I am indeed your journeyman Conrad. Forgive me for the
wound I inflicted on you. But you see, my good master, that I ought
properly to have killed you; but things have now all turned out
different." Greatly confused, Master Martin replied, that it was
after all better that he had not been killed; of the little bit of a
cut with the adze he had made no account. Now when Master Martin
with his new guests entered the room where the bridal pair and the
rest were assembled, they were all agreeably surprised at the
beautiful lady, who was so exactly like the bride, even down to the
minutest feature, that they might have been taken for twin-sisters.
The knight approached the bride with courtly grace and said, "Grant,
lovely Rose, that Conrad be present here on this auspicious day. You
are not now angry with the wild thoughtless journeyman who was nigh
bringing a great trouble upon you, are you?" But as the bridegroom
and the bride and Master Martin were looking at each other in great
wonder and embarrassment, old Herr von Spangenberg said, "Well,
well, I see I must help you out of your dream. This is my son
Conrad, and here is his good, true wife, named Rose, like the lovely
bride. Call our conversation to mind, Master Martin. I had a very
special reason for asking you whether you would refuse your Rose to
my son. The young puppy was madly in love with her, and he induced
me to lay aside all other considerations and make up my mind to come
and woo her on his behalf. But when I told him in what an
uncourteous way I had been dismissed, he in the most nonsensical way
stole into your house in the guise of a cooper, intending to win her
favour and then actually to run away with her. But--you cured him
with that good sound blow across his back; my best thanks for it.
And now he has found a lady of rank who most likely is, after all,
the Rose who was properly in his heart
from the beginning."
Meanwhile the lady had with graceful kindness
greeted the bride, and hung a valuable pearl necklace round her neck
as a wedding present. "See here, dear Rose," she then said, taking a
very withered bunch of flowers out from amongst the fresh blooming
ones which she wore at her bosom--"see here, dear Rose, these are
the flowers that you once gave my Conrad as the prize of victory; he
kept them faithfully until he saw me, then he was unfaithful to you
and gave them to me; don't be angry with me for it." Rose, her
cheeks crimson, cast down her eyes in shy confusion, saying, "Oh!
noble lady, how can you say so? Could the Junker then ever really
love a poor maiden like me? You alone were his love, and it was only
because I am called Rose, and, as they say here, something like you,
that he wooed me, all the while thinking it was you."
A second time the procession was about to set out,
when a young man entered the room, dressed in the Italian style, all
in black slashed velvet, with an elegant lace collar and rich golden
chains of honour hanging from his neck. "O Reinhold, my Reinhold!"
cried Frederick, throwing himself upon the young man's breast. The
bride and Master Martin also cried out excitedly, "Reinhold, our
brave Reinhold is come!" "Did I not tell you," said Reinhold,
returning Frederick's embrace with warmth,--"did I not tell you, my
dear, dear friend, that things might turn out gloriously for you?
Let me celebrate your wedding day with you; I have come a long way
on purpose to do so; and as a lasting memento hang up in your house
the picture which I have painted for you and brought with me." And
then he called down to his two servants, who brought in a large
picture in a magnificent gold frame. It represented Master Martin in
his workshop along with his journeymen Reinhold, Frederick, and
Conrad working at the great cask, and lovely Rose was just entering
the shop. Everybody was astonished at the truth and magnificent
colouring of the piece as a work of art. "Ay," said Frederick,
smiling, "that is, I suppose, your masterpiece as cooper; mine is
below yonder in the entrance-hall; but I shall soon make another."
"I know all," replied Reinhold, "and rate you lucky. Only stick fast
to your art; it can put up with more domesticity and such- like than
mine."
At the marriage feast Frederick sat between the
two Roses, and opposite him Master Martin between Conrad and
Reinhold. Then Herr Paumgartner filled Frederick's cup up to the
brim with rich wine, and drank to the weal of Master Martin and his
brave journeymen. The cup went round; and first it was drained by
the noble Junker Heinrich von Spangenberg, and after him by all the
worthy masters who sat at the table--to the weal of Master Martin
and his brave journeymen.
FOOTNOTES TO "MASTER MARTIN, THE COOPER":
Footnote
1 Written
for the Leipsic Taschenbuch zum geselligen
Vergnügen for 1819.]
Footnote
2 The
"Beautiful Fountain," as it is called, is about 64 ft. in height,
and consists of three stone Gothic pyramids and many statues
(electors and heroes and prophets). It was built by Schonhover in
1355-61, and restored in 1820.]
Footnote
3 St.
Sebald's shrine in St. Sebald's Church consists of a bronze
sarcophagus and canopy of rich Gothic style. It stands about 16-1/2
ft. high, and bears admirable statues of the Twelve Apostles,
certain church-fathers and prophets, and other representations of a
semi-mythological character, together with reliefs illustrative of
episodes in the saint's life. It is regarded by many as one of the
gems of German artistic work, and is the result of thirteen years'
labour (1506-1519) by Peter Vischer and his sons.]
Footnote
4 This
ciborium or receptacle for the host is the work of Adam Krafft,
stands about 68 feet in height, and represents Christ's Passion. The
style is florid Gothic, and the material stone.]
Footnote
5 Albrecht
Dürer, born at Nuremberg in 1471, and died in 1528, contemporary
with Titian and Raphael, the most truly representative German
painter as well as, perhaps, the greatest.]
Footnote
6 Hans
Rosenblüth, Meistersinger and
Wappendichter (Mastersinger and
Herald-poet), called the Schnepperer
(babbler), was a native of Nuremberg. Between 1431 and 1460 is the
period of his literary activity, when he wrote
Fastnachtspiele (developments of the comic elements in
Mysteries), "Odes" on Wine, Farces, &c. He marks the transition from
the poetry of chivalric life and manners to that of burgher life and
manners.]
Footnote
7 Wine was
frequently stored at this period on the cooper's premises in huge
casks, and afterwards drawn off in smaller casks and bottled.]
Footnote
8 In many
Mediæval German towns the rulers (Burgomaster and Councillors) were
mostly self-elected, power being in the hands of a few patrician
families. A Councillor generally attended a full meeting of a guild
as a sort of "patron" or "visitor." Compare the position which Sir
Patrick Charteris occupied with respect to the good citizens of
Perth. (See Sir Walter Scott's Fair Maid of
Perth, chap. vii.,
et passim.)]
Footnote
9 The
well-known Great Cask of Heidelberg, built for the Elector Palatine
Ernest Theodore in 1751, is calculated to hold 49,000 gallons, and
is 32 feet long and 26 feet in diameter. This is not the only
gigantic wine cask that has been made in Germany. Other monsters are
now in the cellars at Tübingen (made in 1546), Groningen (1678),
Königstein (1725), &c.]
Footnote
10
Hoffmann calls him Tobias also lower down, and then Thomas again.]
Footnote
11
Hochheimer is the name of a Rhine wine that has been celebrated
since the beginning of the ninth century, and is grown in the
neighbourhood of Hochheim, a town in the district of Wiesbaden.]
Footnote
12
Johannisberger is also grown near Wiesbaden. The celebrated vineyard
is said to cover only 39-1/2 acres.]
Footnote
13
Nuremberg is noted for its interesting old houses with high narrow
gables turned next the street: amongst the most famous are those
belonging to the families of Nassau, Tucher, Peller, Petersen
(formerly Toppler), and those of Albrecht Dürer and of Hans Sachs,
the cobbler-poet of the 16th century.]
Footnote
14 Peter
von Cornelius (1783-1867), founder of a great German school of
historical painting. Going to Rome in 1811, he painted a set of
seven scenes illustrative of Goethe's
Faust,
having previously finished a set at Frankfort (on Main). Amongst his
many famous works are the Last Judgment in the Ludwig Church at
Munich and frescoes in the Glyptothek there.]
Footnote
15
Gretchen's real words were "Bin weder Fräulein weder schön." See the
scene which follows the "Hexenküche" scene in the first part of
Faust.]
Footnote
16 A
meadow or common on the outskirts of the town, which served as a
general place of recreation and amusement. Nearly every German town
has such; as the Theresa Meadow at Munich, the Canstatt Meadow near
Stuttgart, the Communal Meadow on the right bank of the Main not far
from Frankfort (see Goethe, Wahrheit und
Dichtung, near the beginning), &c.]
Footnote
17 This
word is generally used to designate an untitled country nobleman, a
member of an old-established noble "county" family. In Prussia the
name came to be applied to a political party. A most interesting
description of the old Prussian Junker is given in Wilibald Alexis'
(W. H. Häring's) charming novel Die Hosen des
Herrn v. Bredow (1846-48), in Sir Walter Scott's style.]
Footnote
18 A
string of pearls worn on the wedding-day was a prerogative of a
patrician bride.]
Footnote
19
In the Middle Ages,
in Nuremberg, and in most other industrial towns also, the artisans
and others who formed guilds (each
respective trade or calling having generally its guild) were divided
into three grades, masters, journeymen, and apprentices. Admission
from one of these grades into the one next above it was subject to
various more or less restrictive conditions. A man could only become
a "master" and regularly set up in business for himself after having
gone through the various stages of training in conformity with the
rules or prescriptions of his guild, after having constructed his
masterpiece to the satisfaction of a specially appointed commission,
and after fulfilling certain requirements as to age, citizenship,
and in some cases possession of a certain amount of property. It was
usual for journeymen to spend a certain time in travelling going
from one centre of their trade to another.]
Footnote
20 From
another passage (Der Feind, chap. i) it
appears that the reference is to a series of regulations dealing
with the wine industry, of date August 24, 1498, in the reign of
Maximilian I.]
Footnote
21
Sulphur is burnt inside the cask (care being taken that it does not
touch it) in order to keep it sweet and pure, as well as to impart
both flavour and colour to the wine.]
Footnote
22 See
note 2, p. 15. The German Meistersinger
always sang without any accompaniment of musical instruments.]
Footnote
23 This
is one of the principal round towers, erected 1558-1568, in the town
walls; it is situated on the south-east.]
Footnote
24 Peter
Vischer (c. 1455-1529), a native of
Nuremberg, one of the most distinguished of German sculptors, was
chiefly engaged in making monuments for deceased princes in various
parts of Germany and central Europe. The shrine in St. Sebald's,
mentioned above, is generally considered his masterpiece.]
Footnote
25
Benvenuto Cellini (1500-1569) of Florence, goldsmith and worker in
metals. Mr. W. M. Rossetti rightly says that his biography, written
by himself, forms one of the most "fascinating" of books. It has
been translated into English by Thomas Roscoe, and by Goethe into
German.]
Footnote
26
Holzschuher was the name of an old and important family in
Nuremberg. Fifty-four years before the date of the present story,
that is in 1526, a member of the family was burgomaster of his
native town, and was painted by Dürer.]
Footnote
27 The
family of Fugger, which rose from the position of poor weavers to be
the richest merchant princes in Augsburg, decorated their house with
frescoes externally, like so many other old German families.]
Footnote
28 During
the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries there existed in
many German towns (Nuremberg, Frankfort, Strasburg, Ulm, Mayence,
&c.) associations or guild-like corporations of burghers, the object
of which was the cultivation of song in the same systematic way that
the mechanical arts were practised. They framed strict and
well-defined codes of rules (Tablatures)
by means of which they tested a singer's capabilities. As the chief
aims which they set before themselves were the invention of new
tunes or melodies, and also songs (words), it resulted that they
fell into the inevitable vice of cold formalism, and banished the
true spirit of poetry by their many arbitrary rules about rhyme,
measure, and melody, and the dry business- like manner in which they
worked. The guild or company generally consisted of five distinct
grades, the ultimate one being that of master, entrance into which
was only permitted to the man who had invented a new melody or tune,
and had sung it in public without offending against any of the laws
of the Tablature. The subjects, which, as
the singers were honest burghers, could not be taken from topics in
which chivalric life took any interest, were mostly restricted to
fables, legendary lore, and consisted very largely of Biblical
narratives and passages.]
Footnote
29 These
words are the names of various "tunes," and signified in each case a
particular metre, rhyme, melody, &c, so that each was a brief
definition of a number of individual items, so to speak. These
Meistersinger technical terms (or slang?)
are therefore not translatable, nor could they be made intelligible
by paraphrase, even if the requisite information for each instance
were at hand.]
Footnote
30 A
glass divided by means of marks placed at intervals from top to
bottom. It was usual for one who was invited to drink to drink out
of the challenger's glass down to the mark next below the top of the
liquid.]
Footnote
31 These
would consist of the certificate of his admission into the ranks of
the journeymen of the guild, of the certificates of proper dismissal
signed by the various masters for whom he had worked whilst on
travel, together with testimonials of good conduct from the same
masters.]
Footnote
32 On
these great singing days, generally on Sundays in the churches, and
on special occasions in the town-house, the "performances" consisted
of three parts. 1. First came a "Voluntary Solo-Singing," in which
anybody, even a stranger, might participate, no contest being
entered into, and no rewards given. 2. This was followed by a song
by all the masters in chorus, 3. Then came the "Principal Singing,"
the chief "event" of the day--the actual singing contest. Four
judges were appointed to examine those who successively presented
themselves, being guided by the strict laws and regulations of the
Tablatures. Those who violated these laws,
that is, who made mistakes, had to leave the singing-desk; the
successful ones were, however, crowned with wreaths, and had earned
the right to act themselves as judges on future occasions.]
Footnote
33
Heinrich von Meissen, called Frauenlob (died 1318), after having
lived at various courts in both the north and the south of Germany,
settled at Mayence and gathered together (1311) a school or society
of burgher singers.]
Footnote
34 The
word "prince" is expressed in German by two distinct words; one,
like the English word, designates a member of a royal or reigning
house; the other is used as a simple title, often official, ranking
above duke. The Bishop of Bamberg was in this latter sense a prince
of the empire.]
Footnote
35 At
this time Francesco I. (of the illustrious house of Medici) was
Grand Duke of Tuscany, his father Cosimo
I. having exchanged the title of Duke of Florence for that of Grand
Duke of Tuscany in 1569. Francesco did much for the encouragement of
art and science. He founded the well-known Uffizi Gallery, and it
was in his reign that the Accademia Della Crusca was instituted.]
Footnote
36 Lucas
Cranach occupies along with his contemporary Albrecht Dürer the
first place in the ranks of German painters. Born in Upper Franconia
in 1472 (died 1553), he secured the favour of the Elector of Saxony,
and manifested extraordinary activity in several branches of
painting.]
Pin-Up Weird Tales
The little house in which lived Madeleine de Scudéri,1
well known for her pleasing verses, and the favour of Louis XIV. and
the Marchioness de Maintenon, was situated in the Rue St. Honorée.
One night almost at midnight--it would be about
the autumn, of the year 1680--there came such a loud and violent
knocking at the door of her house that it made the whole
entrance-passage ring again. Baptiste, who in the lady's small
household discharged at one and the same time the offices of cook,
footman, and porter, had with his mistress's permission gone into
the country to attend his sister's wedding; and thus it happened
that La Martinière, Mademoiselle's lady-maid was alone, and the only
person awake in the house. The knockings were repeated. She suddenly
remembered that Baptiste had gone for his holiday, and that she and
her mistress were left in the house without any further protection.
All the outrages burglaries, thefts, and murders--which were then so
common in Paris, crowded upon her mind; she was sure it was a band
of cut-throats who were making all this disturbance outside; they
must be well aware how lonely the house stood, and if let in would
perpetrate some wicked deed against her mistress; and so she
remained in her room, trembling and quaking with fear, and cursing
Baptiste and his sister's wedding as well.
Meanwhile the hammering at the door was being
continued; and she fancied she heard a voice shouting at intervals,
"Oh! do open the door! For God's sake, do open the door!" At last La
Martinière's anxiety rose to such a pitch that, taking up the
lighted candle, she ran out into the passage. There she heard quite
plainly the voice of the person knocking, "For God's sake! do open
the door, please!" "Certainly," thought she, "that surely is not the
way a robber would knock. Who knows whether it is not some poor man
being pursued and wants protection from Mademoiselle, who is always
ready to do an act of kindness? But let us be cautious." Opening a
window, she called out, asking who was down making such a loud noise
at the house-door so late at night, awakening everybody up out of
their sleep; and she endeavoured to give her naturally deep voice as
manly a tone as she possibly could.
By the glimmer of the moon, which now broke
through the dark clouds, she could make out a tall figure, enveloped
in a light-grey mantle, having his broad-brimmed hat pulled down
right over his eyes. Then she shouted in a loud voice, so as to be
heard by the man below, "Baptiste, Claude, Pierre, get up and go and
see who this good-for-nothing vagabond is, who is trying to break
into the house." But the voice from below made answer gently, and in
a tone that had a plaintive ring in it, "Oh! La Martinière, I know
quite well that it is you, my good woman, however much you try to
disguise your voice; I also know that Baptiste has gone into the
country, and that you are alone in the house with your mistress. You
may confidently undo the door for me; you need have no fear. For I
must positively speak with your mistress, and this very minute."
"Whatever are you thinking about?" replied La Martinière. "You want
to speak to Mademoiselle in the middle of the night? Don't you know
that she has been gone to bed a long time, and that for no price
would I wake her up out of her first sound sleep, which at her time
of life she has so much need of?" The person standing below said,
"But I know that your mistress has only just laid aside her new
romance Clélie, at which she labours so
unremittingly; and she is now writing certain verses which she
intends to read to the Marchioness de Maintenon2
to-morrow. I implore you, Madame Martinière, have pity and open me
the door. I tell you the matter involves the saving of an
unfortunate man from ruin,--that the honour, freedom, nay, that the
life of a man is dependent upon this moment, and I
must speak to Mademoiselle. Recollect how
your mistress's anger would rest upon you for ever, if she learned
that you had had the hard-heartedness to turn an unfortunate man
away from her door when he came to supplicate her assistance." "But
why do you come to appeal to my mistress's compassion at this
unusual hour? Come again early in the morning," said La Martinière.
The person below replied, "Does Destiny, then, heed times and hours
when it strikes, like the fatal flash, fraught with destruction?
When there is but a single moment longer in which rescue is still
possible, ought assistance to be delayed? Open me the door; you need
have nothing to fear from a poor defenceless wretch, who is deserted
of all the world, pursued and distressed by an awful fate, when he
comes to beseech Mademoiselle to save him from threatening danger?"
La Martinière heard the man below moaning and sobbing with anguish
as he said these words, and at the same time the voice was the voice
of a young man, gentle, and gifted with the power of appealing
straight to the heart She was greatly touched; without much further
deliberation she fetched the keys.
But hardly had she got the door opened when the
figure enveloped in the mantle burst tumultuously in, and striding
past Martinière into the passage, cried wildly, "Lead me to your
mistress!" In terror Martinière lifted up the candle, and its light
fell upon a young man's face, deathly pale and fearfully agitated.
Martinière almost dropped on the floor with fright, for the man now
threw open his mantle and showed the bright hilt of a stiletto
sticking out of the bosom of his doublet. His eyes flashed fire as
he fixed them upon her, crying still more wildly than before, "Lead
me to your mistress, I tell you." Martinière now believed
Mademoiselle was in the most imminent danger; and her affection for
her beloved mistress, whom she honoured, moreover, as her good and
faithful mother, burnt up stronger in her heart, enkindling a
courage which she had not conceived herself capable of showing.
Hastily pulling to the door of her chamber, which she had left
standing open, she planted herself before it, and said in a strong
firm voice, "I tell you what, your mad behaviour in the house here,
corresponds but ill with your plaintive words outside; I see clearly
that I let my pity be excited on a wrong occasion. You neither ought
to, nor shall you, speak to my mistress now. If your intentions are
not evil, you need not fear daylight; so come again to-morrow and
state your business then. Now, begone with you out of the house."
The man heaved a deep and painful sigh, and fixing Martinière with a
formidable look, grasped his stiletto. She silently commended her
soul to Heaven, but manfully stood her ground, and boldly met the
man's gaze, at the same time drawing herself closer to the door, for
through it the man would have to go to get to her mistress's
chamber. "Let me go to your mistress, I tell you!" cried the man
again. "Do what you will," replied Martinière, "I shall not stir
from this place. Go on and finish your wicked deed; but remember
that you also will die a shameful death at the Place Grève, like
your atrocious partners in crime." "Ah! yes, you are right, La
Martinière," replied the man, "I do look like a villainous robber
and cut-throat, and am armed like one, but my partners have not been
executed,--no, not yet." Therewith, hurling looks of furious wrath
at the poor woman, who was almost dead with terror, he drew his
stiletto. "O God! O God!" she exclaimed, expecting her death-blow;
but at this moment there was heard a rattle of arms in the street,
and the hoof- strokes of horses. "The
Maréchaussée!3
the Maréchaussée! Help! Help!" screamed
Martinière. "You abominable woman, you are determined to ruin me.
All is lost now--it's all over. But here, here--take this. Give that
to your mistress this very night--to-morrow if you like." Whispering
these words, he snatched the light from La Martinière, extinguished
it, and then forced a casket into her hands. "By your hopes of
salvation, I conjure you, give this casket to Mademoiselle," cried
the man; and he rushed out of the house.
Martinière fell to the floor; at length she rose
up with difficulty, and groped her way back in the darkness to her
own room, where she sank down in an arm-chair completely exhausted,
unable to utter a sound. Then she heard the keys rattle, which she
had left in the lock of the street-door. The door was closed and
locked, and she heard cautious, uncertain footsteps approaching her
room. She sat riveted to the chair without power to move, expecting
something terrible to happen. But her sensations may be imagined
when the door opened, and by the light of the night-taper she
recognised at the first glance that it was honest Baptiste, looking
very pale and greatly troubled. "In the name of all the saints!" he
began, "tell me, Dame Martinière, what has happened? Oh! the anxiety
and fear I have had! I don't know what it was, but something drove
me away from the wedding last evening. I couldn't help myself; I had
to come. On getting into our street, I thought. Dame Martinière
sleeps lightly, she'll be sure to hear me, thinks I, if I tap softly
and gently at the door, and will come out and let me in. Then there
comes a strong patrol on horseback as well as on foot, all armed to
the teeth, and they stop me and won't let me go on. But luckily
Desgrais the lieutenant of the Maréchaussée,
is amongst them, who knows me quite well; and when they put their
lanterns under my nose, he says, 'Why, Baptiste, where are you
coming from at this time o' night? You'd better stay quietly in the
house and take care of it There's some deviltry at work, and we are
hoping to make a good capture to-night.' You wouldn't believe how
heavy these words fell on my heart. Dame Martinière. And then when I
put my foot on the threshold, there comes a man, all muffled up,
rushing out of the house with a drawn dagger in his hand, and he
runs over me--head over heels. The door was open, and the keys
sticking in the lock. Oh! tell me what it all means." Martinière,
relieved of her terrible fear and anxiety, related all that had
taken place.
Then she and Baptiste went out into the passage,
and there they found the candlestick lying on the floor where the
stranger had thrown it as he ran away. "It is only too certain,"
said Baptiste, "that our Mademoiselle would have been robbed, ay,
and even murdered, I make no doubt. The fellow knew, as you say,
that you were alone with Mademoiselle,--why, he also knew that she
was awake with her writings. I would bet anything it was one of
those cursed rogues and thieves who force their way right into the
houses, cunningly spying out everything that may be of use to them
in carrying out their infernal plans. And as for that little casket,
Dame Martinière--I think we'd better throw it into the Seine where
it's deepest. Who can answer for it that there's not some wicked
monster got designs on our good lady's life, and that if she opens
the box she won't fall down dead like old Marquis de Tournay did,
when he opened a letter that came from somebody he didn't know?"
After a long consultation the two faithful souls
made up their minds to tell their mistress everything next morning,
and also to place the mysterious casket in her hands, for of course
it could be opened with proper precautions. After minutely weighing
every circumstance connected with the suspicious stranger's
appearance, they were both of the same opinion, namely, that there
was some special mystery connected with the matter, which they durst
not attempt to control single-handed; they must leave it to their
good lady to unriddle.
Baptiste's apprehensions were well founded. Just
at that time Paris was the scene of the most abominable atrocities,
and exactly at the same period the most diabolical invention of
Satan was made, to offer the readiest means for committing these
deeds.
Glaser, a German apothecary, the best chemist of
his age, had busied himself, as people of his profession were in the
habit of doing, with alchemistical experiments. He had made it the
object of his endeavour to discover the Philosopher's Stone. His
coadjutor was an Italian of the name of Exili. But this man only
practised alchemy as a blind. His real object was to learn all about
the mixing and decoction and sublimating of poisonous compounds, by
which Glaser on his part hoped to make his fortune; and at last he
succeeded in fabricating that subtle poison4
that is without smell and without taste, that kills either on the
spot or gradually and slowly, without ever leaving the slightest
trace in the human body, and that deceives all the skill and art of
the physicians, since, not suspecting the presence of poison, they
fail not to ascribe the death to natural causes. Circumspectly as
Exili5
went to work, he nevertheless fell under the suspicion of being a
seller of poison, and was thrown into the Bastille. Soon afterwards
Captain Godin de Sainte Croix was confined in the same dungeon. This
man had for a long time been living in relations with the
Marchioness de Brinvillier,6
which brought disgrace on all the family; so at last, as the Marquis
continued indifferent to his wife's shameful conduct, her father,
Dreux d'Aubray, Civil Lieutenant of Paris,
compelled the guilty pair to part by means of a warrant which was
executed upon the Captain. Passionate, unprincipled, hypocritically
feigning to be pious, and yet inclined from his youth up to all
kinds of vice, jealous, revengeful even to madness, the Captain
could not have met with any more welcome information than that
contained in Exili's diabolical secret, since it would give him the
power to annihilate all his enemies. He became an eager scholar of
Exili, and soon came to be as clever as his master, so that, on
being liberated from the Bastille, he was in a position to work on
unaided.
Before an abandoned woman, De Brinvillier became
through Sainte Croix's instrumentality a monster. He contrived to
induce her to poison successively her own father, with whom she was
living, tending with heartless hypocrisy his declining days, and
then her two brothers, and finally her sister,--her father out of
revenge, and the others on account of the rich family inheritance.
From the histories of several poisoners we have terrible examples
how the commission of crimes of this class becomes at last an
all-absorbing passion. Often, without any further purpose than the
mere vile pleasure of the thing, just as chemists make experiments
for their own enjoyment, have poisoners destroyed persons whose life
or death must have been to them a matter of perfect indifference.
The sudden decease of several poor people in the
Hotel Dieu some time afterwards excited the suspicion that the bread
had been poisoned which Brinvillier, in order to acquire a
reputation for piety and benevolence, used to distribute there every
week. At any rate, it is undoubtedly true that she was in the habit
of serving the guests whom she invited to her house with poisoned
pigeon pie. The Chevalier de Guet and several other persons fell
victims to these hellish banquets. Sainte Croix, his confederate La
Chaussée,7
and Brinvillier were able for a long time to enshroud their horrid
deeds behind an impenetrable veil. But of what avail is the infamous
cunning of reprobate men when the Divine Power has decreed that
punishment shall overtake the guilty here on earth?
The poisons which Sainte Croix prepared were of so
subtle a nature that if the powder (called by the Parisians
Pondre de Succession, or Succession
Powder) were prepared with the face exposed, a single inhalation of
it might cause instantaneous death. Sainte Croix therefore, when
engaged in its manufacture, always wore a mask made of fine glass.
One day, just as he was pouring a prepared powder into a phial, his
mask fell off, and, inhaling the fine particles of the poison, he
fell down dead on the spot. As he had died without heirs, the
officers of the law hastened to place his effects under seal.
Amongst them they found a locked box, which contained the whole of
the infernal arsenal of poisons that the abandoned wretch Sainte
Croix had had at command; they also found Brinvillier's letters,
which left no doubt as to her atrocious crimes. She fled to Liége,
into a convent there. Desgrais, an officer of the
Maréchaussée, was sent after her. In the
disguise of a monk he arrived at the convent where she had concealed
herself, and contrived to engage the terrible woman in a love
intrigue, and finally, under the pretext of a secret meeting, to
entice her out to a lonely garden beyond the precincts of the town.
Directly she arrived at the appointed place she was surrounded by
Desgrais' satellites, whilst her monkish lover was suddenly
converted into an officer of the Maréchaussée,
who compelled her to get into the carriage which stood ready near
the garden; and, surrounded by the police troop, she was driven
straight off to Paris. La Chaussée had been already beheaded
somewhat earlier; Brinvillier suffered the same death, after which
her body was burned and the ashes scattered to the winds.
Now that the monster who had been able to direct
his secret murderous weapons against both friend and foe alike
unpunished was out of the world, the Parisians breathed freely once
more. But it soon became known abroad that the villain Sainte
Croix's abominable art had been handed down to certain successors.
Like a malignant invisible spirit, murder insinuated itself into the
most intimate circles, even the closest of those formed by
relationship and love and friendship, and laid a quick sure grasp
upon its unfortunate victims. He who was seen one day in the full
vigour of health, tottered about the next a weak wasting invalid,
and no skill of the physician could save him from death. Wealth, a
lucrative office, a beautiful and perhaps too young a wife--any of
these was sufficient to draw down upon the possessor this
persecution unto death. The most sacred ties were severed by the
cruellest mistrust. The husband trembled at his wife, the father at
his son, the sister at the brother. The dishes remained untouched,
and the wine at the dinner, which a friend put before his friends;
and there where formerly jest and mirth had reigned supreme, savage
glances were now spying about for the masked murderer. Fathers of
families were observed buying provisions in remote districts with
uneasy looks and movements, and preparing them themselves in the
first dirty cook-shop they came to, since they feared diabolical
treachery in their own homes. And yet even the greatest and most
well-considered precautions were in many cases of no avail.
In order to put a stop to this iniquitous state of
things, which continued to gain ground and grow greater day by day,
the king appointed a special court of justice for the exclusive
purpose of inquiring into and punishing these secret crimes. This
was the so- called Chambre Ardente, which
held its sittings not far from the Bastille, its acting president
being La Regnie.8
For a considerable period all his efforts, however zealously they
were prosecuted, remained fruitless; it was reserved for the crafty
Desgrais to discover the most secret haunts of the criminals. In the
Faubourg St. Germain there lived an old woman called Voisin, who
made a regular business of fortune-telling and raising departed
spirits; and with the help of her confederates Le Sage and Le
Vigoureux, she managed to excite fear and astonishment in the minds
of persons who could not be called exactly either weak or credulous.
But she did more than this. A pupil of Exili, like La Croix, she,
like him, concocted the same subtle poison that killed and left no
trace behind it; and so she helped in this way profligate sons to
get early possession of their inheritance, and depraved wives to
another and younger husband. Desgrais wormed his way into her
secret; she confessed all; the Chambre Ardente
condemned her to be burned alive, and the sentence was executed in
the Place Grève.
Amongst her effects was found a list of all the
persons who had availed themselves of her assistance; and hence it
was that not only did execution follow upon execution, but grave
suspicion fell even upon persons of high position. Thus it was
believed that Cardinal Bonzy had obtained from La Voisin the means
of bringing to an untimely end all those persons to whom, as
Archbishop of Narbonne, he was obliged to pay annuities. So also the
Duchess de Bouillon, and the Countess de Soissons,9
whose names were found on the list, were accused of having had
dealings with the diabolical woman; and even Francois Henri de
Montmorenci, Boudebelle, Duke of Luxemburg,10
peer and marshal of the kingdom, was not spared. He too was
prosecuted by the terrible Chambre Ardente.
He voluntarily gave himself up to be imprisoned in the Bastille,
where through Louvois'11
and La Regnie's hatred he was confined in a cell only six feet long.
Months passed before it was made out satisfactorily that the Duke's
transgression did not deserve any blame: he had once had his
horoscope cast by Le Sage.
It is certain that the President La Regnie was
betrayed by his blind zeal into acts of cruelty and arbitrary
violence. The tribunal acquired the character of an Inquisition; the
most trifling suspicion was sufficient to entail strict
incarceration; and it was left to chance to establish the innocence
of a person accused of a capital crime. Moreover, La Regnie was
hideous in appearance, and of a malicious temperament, so that he
soon drew down upon himself the hatred of those whose avenger or
protector he was appointed to be. The Duchess de Bouillon, being
asked by him during her trial if she had seen the devil, replied, "I
fancy I can see him at this moment."12
But whilst the blood of the guilty and the
suspected alike was flowing in streams in the Place Grève, and after
a time the secret poisonings became less and less frequent, a new
kind of outrage came to light, and again filled the city with
dismay. It seemed as if a band of miscreant robbers were in league
together for the purpose of getting into their possession all the
jewellery they could. No sooner was any valuable ornament purchased
than, no matter how or where kept, it vanished in an inconceivable
way. But what was still worse, any one who ventured to wear
jewellery on his person at night was robbed, and often murdered
even, either in the public street or in the dark passage of a house.
Those who escaped with their lives declared that they had been
knocked down by a blow on the head, which felled them like a
lightning flash, and that on awaking from their stupor they had
found that they had been robbed and were lying in quite a different
place from that where they had received the blow. All who were
murdered, some of whom were found nearly every morning lying either
in the streets or in the houses, had all one and the same fatal
wound,--a dagger-thrust in the heart, killing, according to the
judgment of the surgeons, so instantaneously and so surely that the
victim would drop down like a stone, unable to utter a sound. Who
was there at the voluptuous court of Louis XIV. who was not
entangled in some clandestine intrigue, and stole to his mistress at
a late hour, often carrying a valuable present about him? The
robbers, as if they were in league with spirits, knew almost exactly
when anything of this sort was on foot. Often the unfortunate did
not reach the house where he expected to meet with the reward of his
passion; often he fell on the threshold, nay, at the very chamber
door of his mistress, who was horrified at finding the bloody
corpse.
In vain did Argenson, the Minister of Police,
order the arrest of every person from amongst the populace against
whom there was the least suspicion; in vain did La Regnie rage and
try to extort confessions; in vain did they strengthen their watch
and their patrols;--they could not find a trace of the evil-doers.
The only thing that did to a certain extent avail was to take the
precaution of going armed to the teeth and have a torch carried
before one; and yet instances were not wanting in which the servant
was annoyed by stones thrown at him, whilst at the same moment his
master was murdered and robbed. It was especially remarkable that,
in spite of all inquiries in every place where traffic in jewellery
was in any way possible, not the smallest specimen of the stolen
ornaments ever came to light, and so in this way also no clue was
found which might have been followed.
Desgrais was furious that the miscreants should
thus baffle all his cunning. The quarter of the town in which he
happened to be stationed was spared; whilst in the others, where
nobody apprehended any evil, these robberies and murders claimed
their richest victims.
Desgrais hit upon the ruse of making several
Desgrais one after the other, so exactly alike in gait, posture,
speech, figure, and face, that the myrmidons of the police
themselves did not know which was the real Desgrais. Meanwhile, at
the risk of his own life, he used to watch alone in the most secret
haunts and lairs of crime, and follow at a distance first this man
and then that, who at his own instance carried some valuable
jewellery about his person. These men, however, were not attacked;
and hence the robbers must be acquainted with this contrivance also.
Desgrais absolutely despaired.
One morning Desgrais came to President La Regnie
pale and perturbed, quite distracted in fact. "What's the matter?
What news? Have you got a clue?" cried the President "Oh! your
excellency," began Desgrais, stammering with rage, "oh! your
excellency--last night--not far from the Louvre--the Marquis de la
Fare13
was attacked in my presence." "By Heaven then!" shouted La Regnie,
exultant with joy, "we have them." "But first listen to me,"
interrupted Desgrais with a bitter smile, "and hear how it all came
about. Well then, I was standing near the Louvre on the watch for
these devils who mock me, and my heart was on fire with fury. Then
there came a figure close past me without noticing me, walking with
unsteady steps and looking behind him. By the faint moonlight I saw
that it was Marquis de la Fare. I was not surprised to see him; I
knew where he was stealing to. But he had not gone more than ten or
twelve paces past me when a man started up right out of the earth as
it seemed and knocked him down, and stooped over him. In the sudden
surprise and on the impulse of the moment, which would else have
delivered the murderer into my hands, I was thoughtless enough to
cry out; and I was just bursting out of my hiding-place with a rush,
intending to throw myself upon him, when I got entangled in my
mantle and fell down. I saw the man hurrying away on the wings of
the wind; I made haste and picked myself up and ran after him; and
as I ran I blew my horn; from the distance came the answering
whistles of the man; the streets were all alive; there was a rattle
of arms and a trampling of horses in all directions. 'Here! here!
Desgrais! Desgrais!' I shouted till the streets echoed. By the
bright moonlight I could always see the man in front of me, doubling
here and there to deceive me. We came to the Rue Nicaise, and there
his strength appeared to fail him: I redoubled my efforts; and he
only led me by fifteen paces at the most"---- "You caught him up;
you seized him; the patrol came up?" cried La Regnie, his eyes
flashing, whilst he seized Desgrais by the arm as though he were the
flying murderer. "Fifteen paces," continued Desgrais in a hollow
voice and with difficulty drawing his breath-- "fifteen paces from
me the man sprang aside into the shade and disappeared through the
wall." "Disappeared?--through the wall? Are you mad?" cried La
Regnie, taking a couple of steps backwards and striking his hands
together.
"From this moment onwards," continued Desgrais,
rubbing his brow like a man tormented by hateful thoughts, "your
excellency may call me a madman or an insane ghost-seer, but it was
just as I have told you. I was standing staring at the wall like one
petrified when several men of the patrol hurried up breathless, and
along with them Marquis de la Fare, who had picked himself up, with
his drawn sword in his hand. We lighted the torches, and sounded the
wall backwards and forwards,--not an indication of a door or a
window or an opening. It was a strong stone wall bounding a yard,
and was joined on to a house in which live people against whom there
has never risen the slightest suspicion. To- day I have again taken
a careful survey of the whole place. It must be the Devil himself
who is mystifying us."
Desgrais' story became known in Paris. People's
heads were full of the sorceries and incantations and compacts with
Satan of Voisin, Vigoureuse, and the reprobate priest Le Sage; and
as in the eternal nature of us men, the leaning to the marvellous
and the wonderful so often outweighs all the authority of reason, so
the public soon began to believe simply and solely that as Desgrais
in his mortification had said, Satan himself really did protect the
abominable wretches, who must have sold their souls to him. It will
readily be believed that Desgrais' story received all sorts of
ornamental additions. An account of the adventure, with a woodcut on
the title-page representing a grim Satanic form before which the
terrified Desgrais was sinking in the earth, was printed and largely
sold at the street corners. This alone was enough to overawe the
people, and even to rob the myrmidons of the police of their
courage, who now wandered about the streets at night trembling and
quaking, hung about with amulets and soaked in holy water.
Argenson perceived that the exertions of the
Chambre Ardente were of no avail, and he
appealed to the king to appoint a tribunal with still more extensive
powers to deal with this new epidemic of crime, to hunt up the
evil-doers, and to punish them. The king, convinced that he had
already vested too much power in the
Chambre
Ardente and shaken with horror at the numberless executions
which the bloodthirsty La Regnie had decreed, flatly refused to
entertain the proposed plan.
Another means was chosen to stimulate the king's
interest in the matter.
Louis was in the habit of spending the afternoon
in Madame de Maintenon's salons, and also despatching state business
therewith his ministers until a late hour at night. Here a poem was
presented to him in the name of the jeopardised lovers, complaining
that, whenever gallantry bid them honour their mistress with a
present, they had always to risk their lives on the fulfilment of
the injunction. There was always both honour and pleasure to be won
in shedding their blood for their lady in a knightly encounter; but
it was quite another thing when they had to deal with a stealthy
malignant assassin, against whom they could not arm themselves.
Would Louis, the bright polar star of all love and gallantry, cause
the resplendent beams of his glory to shine and dissipate this dark
night, and so unveil the black mystery that was concealed within it?
The god-like hero, who had broken his enemies to pieces, would now
(they hoped) draw his sword glittering with victory, and, as
Hercules did against the Lernean serpent, or Theseus the Minotaur,
would fight against the threatening monster which was gnawing away
all the raptures of love, and darkening all their joy and converting
it into deep pain and grief inconsolable.
Serious as the matter was, yet the poem did not
lack clever and witty turns, especially in the description of the
anxieties which the lovers had to endure as they stole by secret
ways to their mistresses, and of how their apprehensions proved
fatal to all the rapturous delights of love and to every dainty
gallant adventure before it could even develop into blossom. If it
be added that the poem was made to conclude with a magniloquent
panegyric upon Louis XIV., the king could not fail to read it with
visible signs of satisfaction. Having reached the end of it, he
turned round abruptly to Madame de Maintenon, without lifting his
eyes from the paper, and read the poem through again aloud; after
which he asked her with a gracious smile what was her opinion with
respect to the wishes of the jeopardised lovers.
De Maintenon, faithful to the serious bent of her
mind, and always preserving a certain colour of piety, replied that
those who walked along secret and forbidden paths were not worthy of
any special protection, but that the abominable criminals did call
for special measures to be taken for their destruction. The king,
dissatisfied with this wavering answer, folded up the paper, and was
going back to the Secretary of State, who was working in the next
room, when on casting a glance sideways his eye fell upon
Mademoiselle de Scudéri, who was present in the salon and had taken
her seat in a small easy-chair not far from De Maintenon. Her he now
approached, whilst the pleasant smile which at first had played
about his mouth and on his cheeks, but had then disappeared, now won
the upper hand again. Standing immediately in front of Mademoiselle,
and unfolding the poem once more, he said softly, "Our Marchioness
will not countenance in any way the gallantries of our amorous
gentlemen, and give us evasive answers of a kind that are almost
quite forbidden. But you, Mademoiselle, what is your opinion of this
poetic petition?" De Scudéri rose respectfully from her chair,
whilst a passing blush flitted like the purple sunset rays in
evening across the venerable lady's pale cheeks, and she said,
bowing gently and casting down her eyes,
"Un amant qui craint les voleurs
N'est point digne d'amour."
(A lover who is afraid of robbers is not worthy
of love.)
The king, greatly struck by the chivalric spirit
breathed in these few words, which upset the whole of the poem with
its yards and yards of tirades, cried with sparkling eyes, "By St.
Denis, you are right. Mademoiselle! Cowardice shall not be protected
by any blind measures which would affect the innocent along with the
guilty; Argenson and La Regnie must do their best as they are."
All these horrors of the day La Martinière
depicted next morning in startling colours when she related to her
mistress the occurrence of the previous night; and she handed over
to her the mysterious casket in fear and trembling. Both she and
Baptiste, who stood in the corner as pale as death, twisting and
doubling up his night-cap, and hardly able to speak in his fear and
anxiety,--both begged Mademoiselle in the most piteous terms and in
the names of all the saints, to use the utmost possible caution in
opening the box. De Scudéri, weighing the locked mystery in her
hand, and subjecting it to a careful scrutiny, said smiling, "You
are both of you ghost-seers! That I am not rich, that there are not
sufficient treasures here to be worth a murder, is known to all
these abandoned assassins, who, you yourself tell me, spy out all
that there is in a house, as well as it is to me and you. You think
they have designs upon my life? Who could make capital out of the
death of an old lady of seventy-three, who never did harm to anybody
in the world except the miscreants and peace-breakers in the
romances which she writes herself, who makes middling verses which
can excite nobody's envy, who will have nothing to leave except the
state dresses of an old maid who sometimes went to court, and a
dozen or two well-bound books with gilt edges? And then you,
Martinière,--you may describe the stranger's appearance as frightful
as you like, yet I cannot believe that his intentions were evil. So
then----"
La Martinière recoiled some paces, and Baptiste,
uttering a stifled "Oh!" almost sank upon his knees as Mademoiselle
proceeded to press upon a projecting steel knob; then the lid flew
back with a noisy jerk.
But how astonished was she to see a pair of gold
bracelets, richly set with jewels, and a necklace to match. She took
them out of the case; and whilst she was praising the exquisite
workmanship of the necklace, Martinière was eyeing the valuable
bracelets, and crying time after time, that the vain Lady Montespan
herself had no such ornaments as these. "But what is it for? what
does it all mean?" said De Scudéri. But at this same moment she
observed a small slip of paper folded together, lying at the bottom
of the casket. She hoped, and rightly, to find in it an explanation
of the mystery. She had hardly finished reading the contents of the
scrip when it fell from her trembling hands. She sent an appealing
glance towards Heaven, and then fell back almost fainting into her
chair. Terrified, Martinière sprang to her assistance, and so also
did Baptiste. "Oh! what an insult!" she exclaimed, her voice
half-choked with tears, "Oh! what a burning shame! Must I then
endure this in my old age? Have I then gone and acted with wrong and
foolish levity like some young giddy thing? O God, are words let
fall half in jest capable of being stamped with such an atrocious
interpretation? And am I, who have been faithful to virtue, and of
blameless piety from my earliest childhood until now,--am I to be
accused of the crime of making such a diabolical compact?"
Mademoiselle held her handkerchief to her eyes and
wept and sobbed bitterly, so that Martinière and Baptiste were both
of them confused and rendered helpless by embarrassed constraint,
not knowing what to do to help their mistress in her great trouble.
Martinière picked up the ominous strip of paper
from the floor. Upon it was written--
"Un amant qui craint les voleurs
N'est point digne d'amour.
"Your sagacious mind, honoured lady, has saved us
from great persecution. We only exercise the right of the stronger
over the weak and the cowardly in order to appropriate to ourselves
treasures that would else be disgracefully squandered. Kindly accept
these jewels as a token of our gratitude. They are the most
brilliant that we have been enabled to meet with for a long time;
and yet you, honoured lady, ought to be adorned with jewellery even
still finer than this is. We trust you will not withdraw from us
your friendship and kind remembrance.
"THE INVISIBLES."14
"Is it possible?" exclaimed De Scudéri after she
had to some extent recovered herself, "is it possible for men to
carry their shameless insolence, their godless scorn, to such
lengths?" The sun shone brightly through the dark-red silk window
curtains and made the brilliants which lay on the table beside the
open casket to sparkle in the reddish gleam. Chancing to cast her
eyes upon them, De Scudéri hid her face with abhorrence, and bade
Martinière take the fearful jewellery away at once, that very
moment, for the blood of the murdered victims was still adhering to
it. Martinière at once carefully locked the necklace and bracelets
in the casket again, and thought that the wisest plan would be to
hand it over to the Minister of Police, and to confide to him every
thing connected with the appearance of the young man who had caused
them so much uneasiness, and the way in which he had placed the
casket in her hands.
De Scudéri rose to her feet and slowly paced up
and down the room in silence, as if she were only now reflecting
what was to be done. She then bade Baptiste fetch a sedan chair,
while Martinière was to dress her, for she meant to go straight to
the Marchioness de Maintenon.
She had herself carried to the Marchioness's just
at the hour when she knew she should find that lady alone in her
salons. The casket with the jewellery De Scudéri also took with her.
Of course the Marchioness was greatly astonished
to see Mademoiselle, who was generally a pattern of dignity,
amiability (notwithstanding her advanced age), and gracefulness,
come in with tottering steps, pale, and excessively agitated. "By
all the saints, what's happened to you?" she cried when she saw the
poor troubled lady, who, almost distracted and hardly able to walk
erect, hurried to reach the easy-chair which De Maintenon pushed
towards her. At length, having recovered her power of speech
somewhat, Mademoiselle related what a deep insult--she should never
get over it--her thoughtless jest in answer to the petition of the
jeopardised lovers had brought upon her. The Marchioness, after
learning the whole of the story by fragments, arrived at the
conclusion that De Scudéri took the strange occurrence far too much
to heart, that the mockery of depraved wretches like these could
never come home to a pious, noble mind like hers, and finally she
requested to see the ornaments.
De Scudéri gave her the open casket; and the
Marchioness, on seeing the costly jewellery, could not help uttering
a loud cry of admiration. She took out the necklace and the
bracelets, and approached the window with them, where first she let
the sun play upon the stones, and then she held them up close to her
eyes in order to see better the exquisite workmanship of the gold,
and to admire the marvellous skill with which every little link in
the elaborate chain was finished. All at once the Marchioness turned
round abruptly towards Mademoiselle and cried, "I tell you what,
Mademoiselle, these bracelets and necklace must have been made by no
less a person than René Cardillac."
René Cardillac was at that time the most skilful
goldsmith in Paris, and also one of the most ingenious as well as
one of the most eccentric men of the age. Rather small than great,
but broad-shouldered and with a strong and muscular frame,
Cardillac, although considerably more than fifty, still possessed
the strength and activity of youth. And his strength, which might be
said to be something above the common, was further evidenced by his
abundant curly reddish hair, and his thick-set features and the
sultry gleam upon them. Had not Cardillac been known throughout all
Paris, as one of the most honest and honourable of men,
disinterested, frank, without any reserve, always ready to help, the
very peculiar appearance of his eyes, which were small, deep-set,
green, and glittering, might have drawn upon him the suspicion of
lurking malice and viciousness.
As already said, Cardillac was the greatest master
in his trade, not only in Paris, but also perhaps of his age.
Intimately acquainted with the properties of precious stones, he
knew how to treat them and set them in such a manner that an
ornament which had at first been looked upon as wanting in lustre,
proceeded out of Cardillac's shop possessing a dazzling
magnificence. Every commission he accepted with burning avidity, and
fixed a price that seemed to bear no proportion whatever to the work
to be done--so small was it. Then the work gave him no rest; both
night and day he was heard hammering in his work-shop, and often
when the thing was nearly finished he would suddenly conceive a
dislike to the form; he had doubts as to the elegance of the setting
of some or other of the jewels, of a little link--quite a sufficient
reason for throwing all into the crucible, and beginning the entire
work over again. Thus every individual piece of jewellery that he
turned out was a perfect and matchless masterpiece, utterly
astounding to the person who had given the commission.
But it was now hardly possible to get any work
that was once finished out of his hands. Under a thousand pretexts
he put off the owner from week to week, and from month to month. It
was all in vain to offer him double for the work; he would not take
a single Louis d'or15
more than the price bargained for. When at last he was obliged to
yield to the insistence of his customer, he could not help betraying
all the signs of the greatest annoyance, nay, of even fury seething
in his heart. If the piece of work which he had to deliver up was
something of more than ordinary importance, especially anything of
great value, worth many thousands owing to the costliness of the
jewels or the extreme delicacy of the gold-work, he was capable of
running about like a madman, cursing himself, his labour, and all
about him. But then if any person came up behind him and shouted,
"René Cardillac, would you not like to make a beautiful necklace for
my betrothed?--bracelets for my sweet-heart," or so forth, he would
suddenly stop still, and looking at him with his little eyes, would
ask, as he rubbed his hands, "Well, what have you got?" Thereupon
the other would produce a small jewel- case, and say, "Oh! some
jewels--see; they are nothing particular, only common things, but in
your hands"---- Cardillac does not let him finish what he has to
say, but snatching the case out of his hand takes out the stones
(which are in reality of but little value) and holds them up to the
light, crying enraptured, "Ho! ho! common things, are they? Not at
all! Pretty stones--magnificent stones; only let me make them up for
you. And if you're not squeamish to a handful or two of
Louis d'or, I can add a few more little
gems, which shall sparkle in your eyes like the great sun himself."
The other says, "I will leave it all to you, Master René, and pay
you what you like."
Then, without making any difference whether his
customer is a rich citizen only or an eminent nobleman of the court,
Cardillac throws his arms impetuously round his neck and embraces
him and kisses him, saying that now he is quite happy again, and the
work will be finished in a week's time. Running off home with
breathless speed and up into his workshop, he begins to hammer away,
and at the week's end has produced a masterpiece of art But when the
customer comes prepared to pay with joy the insignificant sum
demanded, and expecting to take the finished ornament away with him,
Cardillac gets testy, rude, obstinate, and hard to deal with. "But,
Master Cardillac, recollect that my wedding is to- morrow."--"But
what have I to do with your wedding? come again in a fortnight's
time." "The ornament is finished; here is your money; and I must
have it." "And I tell you that I've lots of things to alter in it,
and I shan't let you have it to-day." "And I tell you that if you
won't deliver up the ornament by fair means--of course I am willing
to pay you double for it--you shall soon see me march up with
Argenson's serviceable underlings."--"Well, then, may Satan torture
you with scores of red-hot pincers, and hang three hundredweight on
the necklace till it strangle your bride." And therewith, thrusting
the jewellery into the bridegroom's breast pocket, Cardillac seizes
him by the arm and turns him roughly out of the door, so that he
goes stumbling all down the stairs. Then Cardillac puts his head out
of the window and laughs like a demon on seeing the poor young man
limp out of the house, holding his handkerchief to his bloody nose.
But one thing there was about him that was quite
inexplicable. Often, after he had enthusiastically taken a piece of
work in hand, he would implore his customer by the Virgin and all
the saints, with every sign of deep and violent agitation, and with
moving protestations, nay, amidst tears and sobs, that he might be
released from his engagement. Several persons who were most highly
esteemed of the king and the people had vainly offered large sums of
money to get the smallest piece of work from him. He threw himself
at the king's feet and besought as a favour at his hands that he
might not be asked to do any work for him. In the same way he
refused every commission from De Maintenon; he even rejected with
aversion and horror the proposal she made him to fabricate for her a
little ring with emblematic ornaments, which was to be presented to
Racine.
Accordingly De Maintenon now said, "I would wager
that if I sent for Cardillac to come here to tell me at least for
whom he made these ornaments, he would refuse to come, since he
would probably fear it was some commission; and he never will make
anything for me on any account. And yet he has, it seems, dropped
something of his inflexible obstinacy some time ago, for I hear that
he now labours more industriously than ever, and delivers up his
work at once, though still not without much inward vexation and
turning away of his face." De Scudéri, who was greatly concerned
that the ornaments should, if it could possibly be managed, come
soon into the hands of the proper owner, thought they might send
express word to Master Whimsicality that they did not want him to do
any work, but only to pass his opinion upon some jewels. This
commended itself to the Marchioness. Cardillac was sent for; and, as
though he had been already on the way, after a brief interval he
stepped into the room.
On observing De Scudéri he appeared to be
embarrassed; and, like one confounded by something so utterly
unexpected that he forgets the claims of propriety such as the
moment demands, he first made a low and reverential obeisance to
this venerable lady, and then only did he turn to the Marchioness.
She, pointing to the jewellery, which now lay glittering on the
dark-green table-cloth, asked him hastily if it was of his
workmanship. Hardly glancing at it, and keeping his eyes steadily
fixed upon De Maintenon, Cardillac hurriedly packed the necklace and
bracelets into the casket, which stood beside them, and pushed it
violently away from him. Then he said, whilst a forbidding smile
gleamed in his red face, "By my honour, noble lady, he would have
but a poor acquaintance with René Cardillac's workmanship who should
believe for a single moment that any other goldsmith in the world
could set a piece of jewellery like that is done. Of course it's my
handiwork." "Then tell me," continued the Marchioness, "for whom you
made these ornaments." "For myself alone," replied Cardillac. "Ah! I
dare say your ladyship finds that strange," he continued, since both
she and De Scudéri had fixed their eyes upon him astounded, the
former full of mistrust, the latter of anxious suspense as to what
turn the matter would take next; "but it is so. Merely out of love
for my beautiful handicraft I picked out all my best stones and
gladly set to work upon them, exercising more industry and care over
them than I had ever done over any stones before. A short time ago
the ornaments disappeared in some inconceivable way out of my
workshop." "Thank Heaven!" cried De Scudéri, whilst her eyes
sparkled with joy, and she jumped up from her chair as quick and
nimble as a young girl; then going up to Cardillac, she placed both
her hands upon his shoulders, and said, "Here, Master René, take
your property back again, which these rascally miscreants stole from
you." And she related every detail of how she had acquired
possession of the ornaments, to all of which Cardillac listened
silently, with his eyes cast down upon the floor. Only now and again
he uttered an indistinct "Hm!--So!--Ho! ho!" now throwing his hands
behind his back, and now softly stroking his chin and cheeks.
When De Scudéri came to the end of her story,
Cardillac appeared to be struggling with some new and striking
thought which had occurred to him during the course of it, and as
though he were labouring with some rebellious resolve that refused
to conform to his wishes. He rubbed his forehead, sighed, drew his
hand across his eyes, as if to check tears which were gushing from
them. At length he seized the casket which De Scudéri was holding
out towards him, and slowly sinking upon one knee, said, "These
jewels have been decreed to you, my noble and respected lady, by
Destiny. Yes, now I know that it was you I thought about when I was
labouring at them, and that it was for you I worked. Do not disdain
to accept these ornaments, nor refuse to wear them; they are indeed
the best things I have made for a very long time." "Why, why, Master
René," replied De Scudéri, in a charming, jesting manner; "what are
you thinking about? Would it become me at my years to trick myself
out with such bright gems? And what makes you think of giving me
such an over-rich present? Nay, nay, Master René. Now if I were
beautiful like the Marchioness de Fontange,16
and rich too, I assure you I should not let these ornaments pass out
of my hands; but what do these withered arms want with vain show,
and this covered neck with glittering ornaments?" Meanwhile
Cardillac had risen to his feet again; and whilst persistently
holding out the casket towards De Scudéri he said, like one
distracted--and his looks were wild and uneasy,--"Have pity upon me,
Mademoiselle, and take the ornaments. You don't know what great
respect I cherish in my heart for your virtue and your high good
qualities. Accept this little present as an effort on my behalf to
show my deep respect and devotion." But as De Scudéri still
continued to hesitate, De Maintenon took the casket out of
Cardillac's hands, saying, "Upon my word, Mademoiselle, you are
always talking about your great age. What have we, you and I, to do
with years and their burdens? And aren't you acting just like a shy
young thing, who would only too well like to take the sweet fruit
that is offered to her if she could only do so without stirring
either hand or finger? Don't refuse to accept from our good Master
René as a free gift what scores of others could never get, in spite
of all their gold and all their prayers and entreaties."
Whilst speaking De Maintenon had forced the casket
into Mademoiselle's hand; and now Cardillac again fell upon his
knees and kissed De Scudéri's gown and hands, sighing and gasping,
weeping and sobbing; then he jumped up and ran off like a madman, as
fast as he could run, upsetting chairs and tables in his senseless
haste, and making the glasses and porcelain tumble together with a
ring and jingle and clash.
De Scudéri cried out quite terrified, "Good
Heavens! what's happened to the man?" But the Marchioness, who was
now in an especially lively mood and in such a pert humour as was in
general quite foreign to her, burst out into a silvery laugh, and
said, "Now, I've got it, Mademoiselle. Master René has fallen
desperately in love with you, and according to the established form
and settled usage of all true gallantry, he is beginning to storm
your heart with rich presents." She even pushed her raillery
further, admonishing De Scudéri not to be too cruel towards her
despairing lover, until Mademoiselle, letting her natural-born
humour have play, was carried away by the bubbling stream of merry
conceits and fancies. She thought that if that was really the state
of the case, she should be at last conquered and would not be able
to help affording to the world the unprecedented example of a
goldsmith's bride, of untarnished nobility, of the age of three and
seventy. De Maintenon offered her services to weave the
wedding-wreath, and to instruct her in the duties of a good
house-wife, since such a snippety bit of a girl could not of course
know much about such things.
But when at length De Scudéri rose to say adieu to
the Marchioness, she again, notwithstanding all their laughing
jests, grew very grave as she took the jewel-case in her hand, and
said, "And yet, Marchioness, do you know, I can never wear these
ornaments. Whatever be their history, they have at some time or
other been in the hands of those diabolical wretches who commit
robbery and murder with all the effrontery of Satan himself; nay, I
believe they must be in an unholy league with him. I shudder with
awe at the sight of the blood which appears to adhere to the
glittering stones. And then, I must confess, I cannot help feeling
that there is something strangely uneasy and awe-inspiring about
Cardillac's behaviour. I cannot get rid of the dark presentiment
that behind all this there is lurking some fearful and terrible
secret; but when, on the other hand, I pass the whole matter with
all its circumstantial adjuncts in clear review before my mind, I
cannot even guess what the mystery consists in, nor yet how our
brave honest Master René, the pattern of a good industrious citizen,
can have anything to do with what is bad or deserving of
condemnation; but of this I am quite sure, that I shall never dare
to put the ornaments on."
The Marchioness thought that this was carrying
scruples too far. But when De Scudéri asked her on her conscience
what she should really do in her (Scudéri's) place, De Maintenon
replied earnestly and decisively, "Far sooner throw the ornaments
into the Seine than ever wear them."
The scene with Master René was described by De
Scudéri in charming verses, which she read to the king on the
following evening in De Maintenon's salon. And of course it may
readily be conceived that, conquering her uncomfortable feelings and
forebodings of evil, she drew at Master René's expense a diverting
picture, in bright vivacious colours, of the goldsmith's bride of
three and seventy who was of such ancient nobility. At any rate the
king laughed heartily, and swore that Boileau Despreux had found his
master; hence De Scudéri's poem was popularly adjudged to be the
wittiest that ever was written.
Several months had passed, when, as chance would
have it, De Scudéri was driving over the Pont Neuf in the Duchess de
Montansier's glass coach. The invention of this elegant class of
vehicles was still so recent that a throng of the curious always
gathered round it when one appeared in the streets. And so there was
on the present occasion a gaping crowd round De Montansier's coach
on the Pont Neuf, so great as almost to hinder the horses from
getting on. All at once De Scudéri heard a continuous fire of abuse
and cursing, and perceived a man making his way through the thick of
the crowd by the help of his fists and by punching people in the
ribs. And when he came nearer she saw that his piercing eyes were
riveted upon her. His face was pale as death and distorted by pain;
and he kept his eyes riveted upon her all the time he was
energetically working his way onwards with his fists and elbows,
until he reached the door. Pulling it open with impetuous violence,
he threw a strip of paper into De Scudéri's lap, and again dealing
out and receiving blows and punches, disappeared as he had come.
Martinière, who was accompanying her mistress, uttered a scream of
terror when she saw the man appear at the coach door, and fell back
upon the cushions in a swoon. De Scudéri vainly pulled the cord and
called out to the driver; he, as if impelled by the foul Fiend,
whipped up his horses, so that they foamed at the mouth and tossed
their heads, and kicked and plunged, and finally thundered over the
bridge at a sharp trot. De Scudéri emptied her smelling-bottle over
the insensible woman, who at length opened her eyes. Trembling and
shaking, she clung convulsively to her mistress, her face pale with
anxiety and terror as she gasped out, "For the love of the Virgin,
what did that terrible man want? Oh! yes, it was he! it was he!--the
very same who brought you the casket that awful night." Mademoiselle
pacified the poor woman, assuring her that not the least mischief
had been done, and that the main thing to do just then was to see
what the strip of paper contained. She unfolded it and found these
words--
"I am being plunged into the pit of destruction by
an evil destiny which you may avert. I implore you, as the son does
the mother whom he cannot leave, and with the warmest affection of a
loving child, send the necklace and bracelets which you received
from me to Master René Cardillac; any pretext will do, to get some
improvement made--or to get something altered. Your welfare, your
life, depend upon it. If you have not done so by the day after
to-morrow I will force my way into your dwelling and kill myself
before your eyes."
"Well now, it is at any rate certain," said De
Scudéri when she had read it, "that this mysterious man, even if he
does really belong to the notorious band of thieves and robbers, yet
has no evil designs against me. If he had succeeded in speaking to
me that night, who knows whether I should not have learnt of some
singular event or some mysterious complication of things, respecting
which I now try in vain to form even the remotest guess. But let the
matter now take what shape it may, I shall certainly do what this
note urgently requests me to do, if for no other reason than to get
rid of those ill-starred jewels, which I always fancy are a talisman
of the foul Fiend himself. And I warrant Cardillac, true to his
rooted habit, won't let it pass out of his hands again so easily."
The very next day De Scudéri intended to go and
take the jewellery to the goldsmith's. But somehow it seemed as if
all the wits and intellects of entire Paris had conspired together
to overwhelm Mademoiselle just on this particular morning with their
verses and plays and anecdotes. No sooner had La Chapelle17
finished reading a tragedy, and had slyly remarked with some degree
of confident assurance that he should now certainly beat Racine,
than the latter poet himself came in, and routed him with a pathetic
speech of a certain king, until Boileau appeared to let off the
rockets of his wit into this black sky of Tragedy--in order that he
might not be talked to death on the subject of the colonnade18
of the Louvre, for he had been penned up in it by Dr. Perrault, the
architect.
It was high noon; De Scudéri had to go to the
Duchess de Montansier's; and so the visit to Master René Cardillac's
was put off until the next day. Mademoiselle, however, was tormented
by a most extraordinary feeling of uneasiness. The young man's
figure was constantly before her eyes; and deep down in her memory
there was stirring a dim recollection that she had seen his face and
features somewhere before. Her sleep, which was of the lightest, was
disturbed by troublesome dreams. She fancied she had acted
frivolously and even criminally in having delayed to grasp the hand
which the unhappy wretch, who was sinking into the abyss of ruin,
was stretching up towards her; nay, she was even haunted by the
thought that she had had it in her power to prevent a fatal event
from taking place or an enormous crime from being committed. So, as
soon as the morning was fully come, she had Martinière finish her
toilet, and drove to the goldsmith, taking the jewel-casket with
her.
The people were pouring into the Rue Nicaise, to
the house where Cardillac lived, and were gathering about his door,
shouting, screaming, and creating a wild tumult of noise; and they
were with difficulty prevented by the
Maréchaussée, who had drawn a cordon round the house, from
forcing their way in. Angry voices were crying in a wild confused
hubbub, "Tear him to pieces! pound him to dust! the accursed
murderer!" At length Desgrais appeared on the scene with a strong
body of police, who formed a passage through the heart of the crowd.
The house door flew open and a man stepped out loaded with chains;
and he was dragged away amidst the most horrible imprecations of the
furious mob.
At the moment that De Scudéri, who was half
swooning from fright and her apprehensions that something terrible
had happened, was witness of this scene, a shrill piercing scream of
distress rang upon her ears. "Go on, go on, right forward," she
cried to her coachman, almost distracted. Scattering the dense mass
of people by a quick clever turn of his horses, he pulled up
immediately in front of Cardillac's door. There De Scudéri observed
Desgrais, and at his feet a young girl, as beautiful as the day,
with dishevelled hair, only half dressed, and her countenance
stamped with desperate anxiety and wild with despair. She was
clasping his knees and crying in a tone of the most terrible, the
most heart-rending anguish, "Oh! he is innocent! he is innocent." In
vain were Desgrais' efforts, as well as those of his men, to make
her leave hold and to raise her up from the floor. At last a strong
brutal fellow laid his coarse rough hands upon the poor girl and
dragged her away from Desgrais by main force, but awkwardly
stumbling let her drop, so that she rolled down the stone steps and
lay in the street, without uttering a single sound more; she
appeared to be dead.
Mademoiselle could no longer contain herself. "For
God's sake, what has happened? What's all this about?" she cried as
she quickly opened the door of her coach and stepped out. The crowd
respectfully made way for the estimable lady. She, on perceiving
that two or three compassionate women had raised up the girl and set
her on the steps, where they were rubbing her forehead with aromatic
waters, approached Desgrais and repeated her question with
vehemence. "A horrible thing has happened," said Desgrais. "René
Cardillac was found this morning murdered, stabbed to the heart with
a dagger. His journeyman Olivier Brusson is the murderer. That was
he who was just led away to prison." "And the girl?" exclaimed
Mademoiselle---- "Is Madelon, Cardillac's daughter," broke in
Desgrais. "Yon abandoned wretch is her lover. And she's screaming
and crying, and protesting that Olivier is innocent, quite innocent.
But the real truth is she is cognisant of the deed, and I must have
her also taken to the conciergerie
(prison)."
Saying which, Desgrais cast a glance of such
spiteful malicious triumph upon the girl that De Scudéri trembled.
Madelon was just beginning to breathe again, but she still lay with
her eyes closed incapable of either sound or motion; and they did
not know what to do, whether to take her into the house or to stay
with her longer until she came round again. Mademoiselle's eyes
filled with tears, and she was greatly agitated, as she looked upon
the innocent angel; Desgrais and his myrmidons made her shudder.
Downstairs came a heavy rumbling noise; they were bringing down
Cardillac's corpse. Quickly making up her mind. De Scudéri said
loudly, "I will take the girl with me; you may attend to everything
else, Desgrais." A muttered wave of applause swept through the
crowd. They lifted up the girl, whilst everybody crowded round and
hundreds of arms were proffered to assist them; like one floating in
the air the young girl was carried to the coach and placed within
it,--blessings being showered from the lips of all upon the noble
lady who had come to snatch innocence from the scaffold.
The efforts of Seron, the most celebrated
physician in Paris, to bring Madelon back to herself were at length
crowned with success, for she had lain for hours in a dead swoon,
utterly unconscious. What the physician began was completed by De
Scudéri, who strove to excite the mild rays of hope in the girl's
soul, till at length relief came to her in the form of a violent fit
of tears and sobbing. She managed to relate all that had happened,
although from time to time her heart- rending grief got the upper
hand, and her voice was choked with convulsive sobs.
About midnight she had been awakened by a light
tap at her chamber door, and heard Olivier's voice imploring her to
get up at once, as her father was dying. Though almost stunned with
dismay, she started up and opened the door, and saw Olivier with a
light in his hand, pale and dreadfully agitated, and dripping with
perspiration. He led the way into her father's workshop, with an
unsteady gait, and she followed him. There lay her father with fixed
staring eyes, his throat rattling in the agonies of death. With a
loud wail she threw herself upon him, and then first noticed his
bloody shirt. Olivier softly drew her away and set to work to wash a
wound in her father's left breast with a traumatic balsam, and to
bind it up. During this operation her father's senses came back to
him; his throat ceased to rattle; and he bent, first upon her and
then upon Olivier, a glance full of feeling, took her hand, and
placed it in Olivier's, fervently pressing them together. She and
Olivier both fell upon their knees beside her father's bed; he
raised himself up with a cry of agony, but at once sank back again,
and in a deep sigh breathed his last. Then they both gave way to
their grief and sorrow, and wept aloud.
Olivier related how during a walk, on which he had
been commanded by his master to attend him, the latter had been
murdered in his presence, and how through the greatest exertions he
had carried the heavy man home, whom he did not believe to have been
fatally wounded.
When morning dawned the people of the house, who
had heard the lumbering noises, and the loud weeping and lamenting
during the night, came up and found them still kneeling in helpless
trouble by her father's corpse. An alarm was raised; the
Maréchaussée made their way into the
house, and dragged off Olivier to prison as the murderer of his
master. Madelon added the most touching description of her beloved
Olivier's goodness, and steady industry, and faithfulness. He had
honoured his master highly, as though he had been his own father;
and the latter had fully reciprocated this affection, and had chosen
Brusson, in spite of his poverty, to be his son-in-law, since his
skill was equal to his faithfulness and the nobleness of his
character. All this the girl related with deep, true, heart-felt
emotion; and she concluded by saying that if Olivier had thrust his
dagger into her father's breast in her own presence she should take
it for some illusion caused by Satan, rather than believe that
Olivier could be capable of such a horrible wicked crime.
De Scudéri, most deeply moved by Madelon's
unutterable sufferings, and quite ready to regard poor Olivier as
innocent, instituted inquiries, and she found that all Madelon had
said about the intimate terms on which master and journeyman had
lived was fully confirmed. The people in the same house, as well as
the neighbours, unanimously agreed in commending Olivier as a
pattern of goodness, morality, faithfulness, and industry; nobody
knew anything evil about him, and yet when mention was made of his
heinous deed, they all shrugged their shoulders and thought there
was something passing comprehension in it.
Olivier, on being arraigned before the
Chambre Ardente denied the deed imputed to
him, as Mademoiselle learned, with the most steadfast firmness and
with honest sincerity, maintaining that his master had been attacked
in the street in his presence and stabbed, that then, as there were
still signs of life in him, he had himself carried him home, where
Cardillac had soon afterwards expired. And all this too harmonised
with Madelon's account.
Again and again and again De Scudéri had the
minutest details of the terrible event repeated to her. She inquired
minutely whether there had ever been a quarrel between master and
journeyman, whether Olivier was perhaps not subject occasionally to
those hasty fits of passion which often attack even the most
good-natured of men like a blind madness, impelling the commission
of deeds which appear to be done quite independent of voluntary
action. But in proportion as Madelon spoke with increasing heartfelt
warmth of the quiet domestic happiness in which the three had lived,
united by the closest ties of affection, every shadow of suspicion
against poor Olivier, now being tried for his life, vanished away.
Scrupulously weighing every point and starting with the assumption
that Olivier, in spite of all the things which spoke so loudly for
his innocence, was nevertheless Cardillac's murderer, De Scudéri did
not find any motive within the bounds of possibility for the hideous
deed; for from every point of view it would necessarily destroy his
happiness. He is poor but clever. He has succeeded in gaining the
good-will of the most renowned master of his trade; he loves his
master's daughter; his master looks upon his love with a favourable
eye; happiness and prosperity seem likely to be his lot through
life. But now suppose that, provoked in some way that God alone may
know, Olivier had been so overmastered by anger as to make a
murderous attempt upon his benefactor, his father, what diabolical
hypocrisy he must have practised to have behaved after the deed in
the way in which he really did behave. Firmly convinced of Olivier's
innocence, Mademoiselle made up her mind to save the unhappy young
man at no matter what cost.
Before appealing, however, to the king's mercy, it
seemed to her that the most advisable step to take would be to call
upon La Regnie, and direct his attention to all the circumstances
that could not fail to speak for Olivier's innocence, and so perhaps
awaken in the President's mind a feeling of interest favourable to
the accused, which might then communicate itself to the judges with
beneficial results.
La Regnie received De Scudéri with all the great
respect to which the venerable lady, highly honoured as she was by
the king himself, might justly lay claim. He listened quietly to all
that she had to adduce with respect to the terrible crime, and
Olivier's relations to the victim and his daughter, and his
character. Nevertheless the only proof he gave that her words were
not falling upon totally deaf ears was a slight and well-nigh
mocking smile; and in the same way he heard her protestations and
admonitions, which were frequently interrupted by tears, that the
judge was not the enemy of the accused, but must also duly give heed
to anything that spoke in his favour. When at length Mademoiselle
paused, quite exhausted, and dried the tears from her eyes. La
Regnie began, "It does honour to the excellence of your heart.
Mademoiselle, that, being moved by the tears of a young lovesick
girl, you believe everything she tells you, and none the less so
that you are incapable of conceiving the thought of such an
atrocious deed; but not so is it with the judge, who is wont to rend
asunder the mask of brazen hypocrisy. Of course I need not tell you
that it is not part of my office to unfold to every one who asks me
the various stages of a criminal trial. Mademoiselle, I do my duty
and trouble myself little about the judgment of the world. All
miscreants shall tremble before the
Chambre
Ardente, which knows no other punishment except the scaffold and
the stake. But since I do not wish you, respected lady, to conceive
of me as a monster of hard-heartedness and cruelty, suffer me in a
few words to put clearly before you the guilt of this young
reprobate, who, thank Heaven, has been overtaken by the avenging arm
of justice. Your sagacious mind will then bid you look with scorn
upon your own good kindness, which does you so much honour, but
which would never under any circumstances be fitting in me.
"Well then! René Cardillac is found in the morning
stabbed to the heart with a dagger. The only persons with him are
his journeyman Olivier Brusson and his own daughter. In Olivier's
room, amongst other things, is found a dagger covered with blood,
still fresh, which dagger fits exactly into the wound. Olivier says,
'Cardillac was cut down at night before my eyes.' 'Somebody
attempted to rob him?' 'I don't know.' 'You say you went with him,
how then were you not able to keep off the murderer, or hold him
fast, or cry out for help?' 'My master walked fifteen, nay, fully
twenty paces in front of me, and I followed him.' 'But why, in the
name of wonder, at such a distance?' 'My master would have it so.'
'But tell us then what Master Cardillac was doing out in the streets
at so late an hour?' 'That I cannot say.' 'But you have never before
known him to leave the house after nine o'clock in the evening, have
you?' Here Olivier falters; he is confused; he sighs; he bursts into
tears; he protests by all that is holy that Cardillac really went
out on the night in question, and then met with his death. But now
your particular attention, please, Mademoiselle. It has been proved
to absolute certainty that Cardillac never left the house that
night, and so, of course, Olivier's assertion that he went out with
him is an impudent lie. The house door is provided with a ponderous
lock, which on locking and unlocking makes a loud grating echoing
noise; moreover, the wings of the door squeak and creak horribly on
their hinges, so that, as we have proved by repeated experiments,
the noise is heard all the way up to the garrets. Now in the bottom
story, and so of course close to the street door, lives old Master
Claude Patru and his housekeeper, a person of nearly eighty years of
age, but still lively and nimble. Now these two people heard
Cardillac come downstairs punctually at nine o'clock that evening,
according to his usual practice, and lock and bolt the door with
considerable noise, and then go up again, where they further heard
him read the evening prayers aloud, and then, to judge by the
banging of doors, go to his own sleeping-chamber. Master Claude,
like many old people, suffers from sleeplessness; and that night too
he could not close an eye. And so, somewhere about half-past nine it
seems, his old housekeeper went into the kitchen (to get into which
she had to cross the passage) for a light, and then came and sat
down at the table beside Master Claude with an old Chronicle, out of
which she read; whilst the old man, following the train of his
thoughts, first sat down in his easy-chair, and then stood up again,
and paced softly and slowly up and down the room in order to bring
on weariness and sleepiness. All remained quiet and still until
after midnight. Then they heard quick steps above them and a heavy
fall like some big weight being thrown on the floor, and then soon
after a muffled groaning. A peculiar feeling of uneasiness and
dreadful suspense took possession of them both. It was horror at the
bloody deed which had just been committed, which passed out beside
them. The bright morning came and revealed to the light what had
been begun in the hours of darkness."
"But," interrupted De Scudéri, "but by all the
saints, tell me what motive for this diabolical deed you can find in
any of the circumstances which I just now repeated to you at such
length?" "Hm!" rejoined La Regnie, "Cardillac was not poor--he had
some valuable stones in his possession." "But would not his daughter
inherit everything?" continued De Scudéri. "You are forgetting that
Olivier was to be Cardillac's son-in-law." "But perhaps he had to
share or only do the murderous deed for others," said La Regnie.
"Share? do a murderous deed for others?" asked De Scudéri, utterly
astounded. "I must tell you, Mademoiselle," continued the President,
"that Olivier's blood would long ago have been shed in the Place
Grève, had not his crime been bound up with that deeply enshrouded
mystery which has hitherto exercised such a threatening sway over
all Paris. It is evident that Olivier belongs to that accursed band
of miscreants who, laughing to scorn all the watchfulness, and
efforts, and strict investigations of the courts, have been able to
carry out their plans so safely and unpunished. Through him all
shall--all must be cleared up. Cardillac's wound is precisely
similar to those borne by all the persons who have been found
murdered and robbed in the streets and houses. But the most decisive
fact is that since the time Olivier Brusson has been under arrest
all these murders and robberies have ceased The streets are now as
safe by night as they are by day. These things are proof enough that
Olivier probably was at the head of this band of assassins. As yet
he will not confess it; but there are means of making him speak
against his will." "And Madelon," exclaimed De Scudéri, "and
Madelon, the faithful, innocent dove!" "Oh!" said La Regnie, with a
venomous smile, "Oh! but who will answer to me for it that she also
is not an accomplice in the plot? What does she care about her
father's death? Her tears are only shed for this murderous rascal."
"What do you say?" screamed De Scudéri; "it cannot possibly be. Her
father--this girl!" "Oh!" went on La Regnie, "Oh, but pray recollect
De Brinvillier. You will be so good as to pardon me if I perhaps
soon find myself compelled to take your favourite from your
protection, and have her cast into the Conciergerie."
This terrible suspicion made Mademoiselle shudder.
It seemed to her as if no faithfulness, no virtue, could stand fast
before this fearful man; he seemed to espy murder and
blood-guiltiness in the deepest and most secret thoughts. She rose
to go. "Be human!" was all that she could stammer out in her
distress, and she had difficulty in breathing. Just on the point of
going down the stairs, to the top of which the President had
accompanied her with ceremonious courtesy, she was suddenly struck
by a strange thought, at which she herself was surprised. "And could
I be allowed to see this unhappy Olivier Brusson?" she asked,
turning round quickly to the President. He, however, looked at her
somewhat suspiciously, but his face was soon contracted into the
forbidding smile so characteristic of him. "Of course, honoured
lady," said he, "relying upon your feelings and the little voice
within you more than upon what has taken place before our very eyes,
you will yourself prove Olivier's guilt or innocence, I perceive. If
you are not afraid to see the dark abodes of crime, and if you think
there will be nothing too revolting in looking upon pictures of
depravity in all its stages, then the doors of the Conciergerie
shall be opened to you in two hours from now. You shall have this
Olivier, whose fate excites your interest so much, presented to
you."
To tell the truth, De Scudéri could by no means
convince herself of the young man's guilt. Although everything spoke
against him, and no judge in the world could have acted differently
from what La Regnie did in face of such conclusive circumstantial
evidence, yet all these base suspicions were completely outweighed
by the picture of domestic happiness which Madelon had painted for
her in such warm lifelike colours; and hence she would rather adopt
the idea of some unaccountable mystery than believe in the truth of
that at which her inmost heart revolted.
She was thinking that she would get Olivier to
repeat once more all the events of that ill-omened night and worm
her way as much as possible into any secret there might be which
remained sealed to the judges, since for their purposes it did not
seem worth while to give themselves any further trouble about the
matter.
On arriving at the Conciergerie, De Scudéri was
led into a large light apartment. She had not long to wait before
she heard the rattle of chains. Olivier Brusson was brought in. But
the moment he appeared in the doorway De Scudéri sank on the floor
fainting. When she recovered, Olivier had disappeared. She demanded
impetuously that she should be taken to her carriage; she would
go--go at once, that very moment, from the apartments of wickedness
and infamy. For oh! at the very first glance she had recognised in
Olivier Brusson the young man who had thrown the note into the
carriage on the Pont Neuf, and who had brought her the casket and
the jewels. Now all doubts were at an end; La Regnie's horrible
suspicion was fully confirmed. Olivier Brusson belonged to the
atrocious band of assassins; undoubtedly he murdered his master. And
Madelon? Never before had Mademoiselle been so bitterly deceived by
the deepest promptings of her heart; and now, shaken to the very
depths of her soul by the discovery of a power of evil on earth in
the existence of which she had not hitherto believed, she began to
despair of all truth. She allowed the hideous suspicion to enter her
mind that Madelon was involved in the complot, and might have had a
hand in the infamous deed of blood. As is frequently the case with
the human mind, that, once it has laid hold upon an idea, it
diligently seeks for colours, until it finds them, with which to
deck out the picture in tints ever more vivid and ever more glaring;
so also De Scudéri, on reflecting again upon all the circumstances
of the deed, as well as upon the minutest features in Madelon's
behaviour, found many things to strengthen her suspicion. And many
points which hitherto she had regarded as a proof of innocence and
purity now presented themselves as undeniable tokens of abominable
wickedness and studied hypocrisy. Madelon's heartrending expressions
of trouble, and her floods of piteous tears, might very well have
been forced from her, not so much from fear of seeing her lover
perish on the scaffold, as of falling herself by the hand of the
executioner. To get rid at once of the serpent she was nourishing in
her bosom, this was the determination with which Mademoiselle got
out of her carriage.
When she entered her room, Madelon threw herself
at her feet. With her lovely eyes--none of God's angels had
truer--directed heavenwards, and with her hands folded upon her
heaving bosom, she wept and wailed, craving help and consolation.
Controlling herself by a painful effort, De Scudéri, whilst
endeavouring to impart as much earnestness and calmness as she
possibly could to the tone in which she spoke, said,
"Go--go--comfort yourself with the thought that righteous punishment
will overtake yon murderer for his villainous deeds. May the Holy
Virgin forbid that you yourself come to labour under the heavy
burden of blood-guiltiness." "Oh! all hope is now lost!" cried
Madelon, with a piercing shriek, as she reeled to the floor
senseless. Leaving La Martinière to attend to the girl, Mademoiselle
withdrew into another room.
De Scudéri's heart was torn and bleeding; she felt
herself at variance with all mankind, and no longer wished to live
in a world so full of diabolical deceit! She reproached Destiny
which in bitter mockery had so many years suffered her to go on
strengthening her belief in virtue, and truth, only to destroy now
in her old age the beautiful images which had been her guiding-stars
through life.
She heard Martinière lead away Madelon, who was
sighing softly and lamenting. "Alas! and she--she too--these cruel
men have infatuated her. Poor, miserable me! Poor, unhappy Olivier!"
The tones of her voice cut De Scudéri to the heart; again there
stirred in the depths of her soul a dim presentiment that there was
some mystery connected with the case, and also the belief in
Olivier's innocence returned. Her mind distracted by the most
contradictory feelings, she cried, "What spirit of darkness is it
which has entangled me in this terrible affair? I am certain it will
be the death of me." At this juncture Baptiste came in, pale and
terrified, with the announcement that Desgrais was at the door. Ever
since the trial of the infamous La Voisin the appearance of Desgrais
in any house was the sure precursor of some criminal charge; hence
came Baptiste's terror, and therefore it was that Mademoiselle asked
him with a gracious smile, "What's the matter with you, Baptiste?
The name Scudéri has been found on La Voisin's list, has it not,
eh?" "For God's sake," replied Baptiste, trembling in every limb,
"how can you speak of such a thing? But Desgrais, that terrible man
Desgrais, behaves so mysteriously, and is so urgent; he seems as if
he couldn't wait a moment before seeing you." "Well, then,
Baptiste," said De Scudéri, "then bring him up at once--the man who
is so terrible to you; in me, at least, he will excite no anxiety."
"The President La Regnie has sent me to you,
Mademoiselle," said Desgrais on stepping into the room, "with a
request which he would hardly dare hope you could grant, did he not
know your virtue and your courage. But the last means of bringing to
light a vile deed of blood lie in your hands; and you have already
of your own accord taken an active part in the notorious trial which
the Chambre Ardente, and in fact all of
us, are watching with breathless interest. Olivier Brusson has been
half a madman since he saw you. He was beginning to show signs of
compliance and a readiness to make a confession, but he now swears
again, by all the powers of Heaven, that he is perfectly innocent of
the murder of Cardillac; and yet he says he is ready to die the
death which he has deserved. You will please observe, Mademoiselle,
that the last clause evidently has reference to other crimes which
weigh upon his conscience. But vain are all our efforts to get him
to utter a single word more; even the threat of torture has been of
no avail. He begs and prays, and beseeches us to procure him an
interview with you; for to you, to
you only, will he confess all. Pray deign,
Mademoiselle, to hear Brusson's confession." "What!" exclaimed De
Scudéri indignantly, "am I to be made an instrument of by a criminal
court, am I to abuse this unhappy man's confidence to bring him to
the scaffold? No, Desgrais. However vile a murderer Brusson may be,
I would never, never deceive him in that villainous way. I don't
want to know anything about his secrets; in any case they would be
locked up within my own bosom as if they were a holy confession made
to a priest" "Perhaps," rejoined Desgrais with a subtle smile,
"perhaps, Mademoiselle, you would alter your mind after you had
heard Brusson. Did you not yourself exhort the President to be
human? And he is being so, in that he gives way to Brusson's foolish
request, and thus resorts to the last means before putting him to
the rack, for which he was well ripe some time ago." De Scudéri
shuddered involuntarily. "And then, honoured lady," continued
Desgrais, "it will not be demanded of you that you again enter those
dark gloomy rooms which filled you with such horror and aversion.
Olivier shall be brought to you here in your own house as a free
man, but at night, when all excitement can be avoided. Then, without
being even listened to, though of course he would be watched, he may
without constraint make a clean confession to you. That you
personally will have nothing to fear from the wretch--for that I
will answer to you with my life. He mentions your name with the
intensest veneration. He reiterates again and again that it is
nothing but his dark destiny, which prevented him seeing you before,
that has brought his life into jeopardy in this way. Moreover, you
will be at liberty to divulge what you think well of the things
which Brusson confesses to you. And what more could we indeed compel
you to do?"
De Scudéri bent her eyes upon the floor in
reflection. She felt she must obey the Higher Power which was thus
demanding of her that she should effect the disclosure of some
terrible secret, and she felt, too, as though she could not draw
back out of the tangled skein into which she had run without any
conscious effort of will. Suddenly making up her mind, she replied
with dignity, "God will give me firmness and self-command, Bring
Brusson here; I will speak with him."
Just as on the previous occasion when Brusson
brought the casket, there came a knock at De Scudéri's house door at
midnight. Baptiste, forewarned of this nocturnal visit, at once
opened the door. De Scudéri felt an icy shiver run through her as
she gathered from the light footsteps and hollow murmuring voices
that the guards who had brought Brusson were taking up their
stations about the passages of the house.
At length the room door was softly opened.
Desgrais came in, followed by Olivier Brusson, freed from his
fetters, and dressed in his own neat clothing. The officer bowed
respectfully and said, "Here is Brusson, honoured lady," and then
left the room. Brusson fell upon his knees before Mademoiselle, and
raised his folded hands in entreaty, whilst copious tears ran down
his cheeks.
De Scudéri turned pale and looked down upon him
without being able to utter a word. Though his features were now
gaunt and hollow from trouble and anguish and pain, yet an
expression of the truest staunchest honesty shone upon his
countenance. The longer Mademoiselle allowed her eyes to rest upon
his face, the more forcibly was she reminded of some loved person,
whom she could not in any way clearly call to mind. All her feelings
of shivery uncomfortableness left her; she forgot that it was
Cardillac's murderer who was kneeling before her; she spoke in the
calm pleasing tone of goodwill that was characteristic of her,
"Well, Brusson, what have you to tell me?" He, still kneeling,
heaved a sigh of unspeakable sadness, that came from the bottom of
his heart, "Oh! honoured, highly esteemed lady, can you have lost
all traces of recollection of me?" Mademoiselle scanned his features
more narrowly, and replied that she had certainly discovered in his
face a resemblance to some one she had once loved, and that it was
entirely owing to this resemblance that she had overcome her
detestation of the murderer, and was listening to him calmly.
Brusson was deeply hurt at these words; he rose
hastily to his feet and took a step, backwards, fixing his eyes
gloomily on the floor. "Then you have completely forgotten Anne
Guiot?" he said moodily; "it is her son Olivier,--the boy whom you
often tossed on your lap--who now stands before you." "Oh help me,
good Heaven!" exclaimed Mademoiselle, covering her face with both
hands and sinking back upon the cushions. And reason enough she had
to be thus terribly affected. Anne Guiot, the daughter of an
impoverished burgher, had lived in De Scudéri's house from a little
girl, and had been brought up by Mademoiselle with all the care and
faithfulness which a mother expends upon her own child. Now when she
was grown up there came a modest good-looking young man, Claude
Brusson by name, and he wooed the girl. And since he was a
thoroughly clever watchmaker, who would be sure to find a very good
living in Paris, and since Anne had also grown to be truly fond of
him, De Scudéri had no scruples about giving her consent to her
adopted daughter's marriage. The young people, having set up
housekeeping, led a quiet life of domestic happiness; and the ties
of affection were knit still closer by the birth of a marvellously
pretty boy, the perfect image of his lovely mother.
De Scudéri made a complete idol of little Olivier,
carrying him off from his mother for hours and days together to
caress him and to fondle him. Hence the boy grew quite accustomed to
her, and would just as willingly be with her as with his mother.
Three years passed away, when the trade-envy of Brusson's
fellow-artificers made them concert together against him, so that
his business decreased day by day, until at last he could hardly
earn enough for a bare subsistence. Along with this he felt an
ardent longing to see once more his beautiful native city of Geneva;
accordingly the small family moved thither, in spite of De Scudéri's
opposition and her promises of every possible means of support Anne
wrote two or three times to her foster-mother, and then nothing more
was heard from her; so that Mademoiselle had to take refuge in the
conclusion that the happy life they were leading in Brusson's native
town prevented their memories dwelling upon the days that were past
and gone. It was now just twenty-three years since Brusson had left
Paris along with his wife and child and had gone to Geneva.
"Oh! horrible!" exclaimed De Scudéri when she had
again recovered herself to some extent. "Oh! horrible! are you
Olivier? my Anne's son? And now----" "Indeed, honoured lady,"
replied Olivier calmly and composedly, "indeed you never could, I
suppose, have any the least idea that the boy whom you fondled with
all a mother's tenderness, into whose mouth you never tired of
putting sweets and candies as you tossed him on your lap, whom you
called by the most caressing names, would, when grown up to be a
young man, one day stand before you accused of an atrocious crime. I
am not free from reproach; the Chambre Ardente
may justly bring a charge against me; but by my hopes of happiness
after death, even though it be by the executioner's hand, I am
innocent of this bloody deed; the unhappy Cardillac did not perish
through me, nor through any guilty connivance on my part." So
saying, Olivier began to shake and tremble. Mademoiselle silently
pointed to a low chair which stood beside him, and he slowly sank
down upon it.
"I have had plenty of time to prepare myself for
my interview with you," he began, "which I regard as the last favour
to be granted me by Heaven in token of my reconciliation with it,
and I have also had time enough to gain what calmness and composure
are needful in order to relate to you the history of my fearful and
unparalleled misfortunes. I entreat your pity, that you will listen
calmly to me, however much you may be surprised--nay, even struck
with horror, by the disclosure of a secret which I am sure you have
never for a moment suspected. Oh! that my poor father had never left
Paris! As far back as my recollections of Geneva go I remember how I
felt the tears of my unhappy parents falling upon my cheeks; and how
their complaints of misery, which I did not understand, provoked me
also to tears. Later I experienced to the full and with keen
consciousness in what a state of crushing want and of deep distress
my parents lived. My father found all his hopes deceived. He died
bowed to the earth with pain, and broken with trouble, immediately
after he had succeeded in placing me as apprentice to a goldsmith.
My mother talked much about you; she said she would pour out all her
troubles to you; but then she fell a victim to that despondency
which is born of misery. That, and also a feeling of false shame,
which often preys upon a deeply wounded spirit, prevented her from
taking any decisive step. Within a few months after my father's
death my mother followed him to the grave." "Poor Anne! poor Anne!"
exclaimed Mademoiselle, quite overcome by sorrow. "All praise and
thanks to the Eternal Power of Heaven that she is gone to the better
land; she will not see her darling son, branded with shame, fall by
the hand of the executioner," cried Olivier aloud, casting his eyes
upwards with a wild unnatural look of anguish.
The police grew uneasy outside; footsteps passed
to an fro. "Ho! ho!" said Olivier, smiling bitterly, "Desgrais is
waking up his myrmidons, as though I could make my escape
here. But to continue--I led a hard life
with my master, albeit I soon got to be the best workman, and at
last even surpassed my master himself. One day a stranger happened
to come into our shop to buy some jewellery. And when he saw a
beautiful necklace which I had made he clapped me on the shoulder in
a friendly way and said, eyeing the ornament, 'Ha! i' faith, my
young friend, that's an excellent piece of work. To tell you the
truth, I don't know who there is who could beat you, unless it were
René Cardillac, who, you know, is the first goldsmith in the world.
You ought to go to him; he would gladly take you into his workshop;
for nobody but you could help him in his artistic labours; and on
the other hand he is the only man from whom you could learn
anything.' The stranger's words sank into my heart and took deep
root there. I hadn't another moment's ease in Geneva; I felt a
violent impulse to be gone. At last I contrived to get free from my
master. I came to Paris. René Cardillac received me coldly and
churlishly. I persevered in my purpose; he must give me some work,
however insignificant it might be. I got a small ring to finish. On
my taking the work to him, he fixed his keen glittering eyes upon me
as if he would read the very depths of my soul. Then he said, 'You
are a good clever journeyman; you may come to me and help me in my
shop. I will pay you well; you shall be satisfied with me.'
Cardillac kept his word. I had been several weeks with him before I
saw Madelon; she was at that time, if I mistake not, in the country,
staying, with a female relative of Cardillac's; but at length she
came. O Heaven! O God! what did I feel when I saw the sweet angel?
Has any man ever loved as I do? And now--O Madelon!"
Olivier was so distressed he could not go on.
Holding both hands before his face, he sobbed violently, But at
length, fighting down with an effort the sharp pain that shook him,
he went on with his story.
"Madelon looked upon me with friendly eyes. Her
visits into the workshop grew more and more frequent. I was
enraptured to perceive that she loved me. Notwithstanding the strict
watch her father kept upon us many a stolen pressure of the hand
served as a token of the mutual understanding arrived at between us;
Cardillac did not appear to notice anything. I intended first to win
his favour, and, if I could gain my mastership, then to woo for
Madelon. One day, as I was about to begin work, Cardillac came to
me, his face louring darkly with anger and scornful contempt 'I
don't want your services any longer,' he began, 'so out you go from
my house this very hour; and never show yourself in my sight again.
Why I can't do with you here any longer, I have no need to tell you.
For you, you poor devil, the sweet fruit at which you are stretching
out your hand hangs too high.' I attempted to speak, but he laid
hold upon me with a powerful grasp and threw me out of doors, so
that I fell to the floor and severely wounded my head and arm. I
left the house hotly indignant and furious with the stinging pain;
at last I found a good-natured acquaintance in the remotest corner
of the Faubourg St. Martin, who received me into his garret. But I
had neither ease nor rest. Every night I used to lurk about
Cardillac's house deluding myself with the fancy that Madelon would
hear my sighing and lamenting, and that she would perhaps find a way
to speak to me out of the window unheard. All sorts of confused
plans were revolving in my brain, which I hoped to persuade her to
carry out.
"Now joining Cardillac's house in the Rue Nicaise
there is a high wall, with niches and old stone figures in them, now
half crumbled away. One night I was standing close beside one of
these stone images and looking up at those windows of the house
which looked out upon the court enclosed by the wall. All at once I
observed a light in Cardillac's workshop. It was midnight; Cardillac
never used to be awake at that hour; he was always in the habit of
going to rest on the stroke of nine. My heart beat in uncertain
trepidation; I began to think something might have happened which
would perhaps pave the way for me to go back into the house once
more. But soon the light vanished again. I squeezed myself into the
niche close to the stone figure; but I started back in dismay on
feeling a pressure against me, as if the image had become instinct
with life. By the dusky glimmer of the night I perceived that the
stone was slowly revolving, and a dark form slipped out from behind
it and went away down the street with light, soft footsteps. I
rushed towards the stone figure; it stood as before, close to the
wall. Almost without thinking, rather as if impelled by some inward
prompter, I stealthily followed the figure. Just beside an image of
the Virgin he turned round; the light of the street lamp standing
exactly in front of the image fell full upon his face. It was
Cardillac.
"An unaccountable feeling of apprehension--an
unearthly dread fell upon me. Like one subject to the power of
magic, I had to go on--on--in the track of the spectre-like
somnambulist. For that was what I took my master to be,
notwithstanding that it was not the time of full moon, when this
visitation is wont to attack the sleeper. Finally Cardillac
disappeared into the deep shade on the side of the street. By a sort
of low involuntary cough, which, however, I knew well, I gathered
that he was standing in the entry to a house. 'What is the meaning
of that? What is he going to do?' I asked myself, utterly astounded,
pressing close against a house-wall. It was not long before a man
came along with fluttering plumes and jingling spur, singing and
gaily humming an air. Like a tiger leaping upon his prey, Cardillac
burst out of his lurking-place and threw himself upon the man, who
that very same instant fell to the ground, gasping in the agonies of
death. I rushed up with a cry of horror; Cardillac was stooping over
the man, who lay on the floor. 'Master Cardillac, what are you
doing?' I shouted. 'Cursed fool!' growled Cardillac, running past me
with lightning-like speed and disappearing from sight.
"Quite upset and hardly able to take a step, I
approached the man who had been stabbed. I knelt down beside him.
'Perhaps,' thought I, 'he still may be saved;' but there was not the
least sign of life. In my fearful agitation I had hardly noticed
that the Maréchausée had surrounded me.
'What? already another assassinated by these demons! Hi! hi! Young
man, what are you about here?--Are you one of the band?--Away with
him!' Thus they cried one after another, and they laid hold of me. I
was scarcely able to stammer out that I should never be capable of
such an abominable deed, and that they might therefore let me go my
way in peace. Then one of them turned his lamp upon my face and said
laughing, 'Why, it's Olivier Brusson, the journeyman goldsmith, who
works for our worthy honest Master René Cardillac. Ay, I should
think so!--he murder people in the
street--he looks like it indeed! It's just like murderous assassins
to stoop lamenting over their victim's corpse till somebody comes
and takes them into custody. Well, how was it, youngster? Speak out
boldly?' 'A man sprang out immediately in front of me,' I said, 'and
threw himself upon this man and stabbed him, and then ran away as
quick as lightning when I shouted out. I only wanted to see if the
stabbed man might still be saved.' 'No, my son,' cried one of those
who had taken up the corpse; 'he's dead enough; the dagger has gone
right through the heart as usual.' 'The Devil!' said another; 'we
have come too late again, as we did yesterday.' Thereupon they went
their way, taking the corpse with them.
"What my feelings were I cannot attempt to
describe. I felt myself to make sure whether I were not being mocked
by some hideous dream; I fancied I must soon wake up and wonder at
the preposterous delusion. Cardillac, the father of my Madelon, an
atrocious murderer! My strength failed me; I sank down upon the
stone steps leading up to a house. The morning light began to
glimmer and was stronger and stronger; an officer's hat decorated
with feathers lay before me on the pavement. I saw again vividly
Cardillac's bloody deed, which had been perpetrated on the spot
where I sat. I ran off horrified.
"I was sitting in my garret, my thoughts in a
perfect whirl, nay, I was almost bereft of my senses, when the door
opened, and René Cardillac came in. 'For God's sake, what do you
want?' I exclaimed on seeing him. Without heeding my words, he
approached close to me, smiling with calmness and an air of
affability which only increased my inward abhorrence. Pulling up a
rickety old stool and taking his seat upon it close beside me, for I
was unable to rise from the heap of straw upon which I had thrown
myself, he began, 'Well, Olivier, how are you getting on, my poor
fellow? I did indeed do an abominably rash thing when I turned you
out of the house; I miss you at every step and turn. I have got a
piece of work on hand just now which I cannot finish without your
help. How would it be if you came back to work in my shop? Have you
nothing to say? Yes, I know I have insulted you. I will not attempt
to conceal it from you that I was angry on account of your love
making to my Madelon. But since then I have ripely reflected upon
the matter, and decided that, considering your skill and industry
and faithful honesty, I could not wish for any better son-in-law
than you. So come along with me, and see if you can win Madelon to
be your bride.'
"Cardillac's words cut me to the very heart; I
trembled with dread at his wickedness; I could not utter a word. 'Do
you hesitate?' he continued in a sharp tone, piercing me through and
through with his glittering eyes; 'do you hesitate? Perhaps you
can't come along with me just to-day--perhaps you have some other
business on hand! Perhaps you mean forsooth to pay a visit to
Desgrais or get yourself admitted to an interview with D'Argenson or
La Regnie. But you'd better take care, boy, that the claws which you
entice out of their sheaths to other people's destruction don't
seize upon you yourself and tear you to pieces!' Then my swelling
indignation suddenly found vent 'Let those who are conscious of
having committed atrocious crimes,' I cried,--'let them start at the
names you just named. As for me, I have no reason to do so--I have
nothing to do with them.' 'Properly speaking,' went on Cardillac,
'properly speaking, Olivier, it is an honour to you to work with
me--with me, the most renowned master of the age, and highly
esteemed everywhere for his faithfulness and honesty, so that all
wicked calumnies would recoil upon the head of the backbiter. And as
far as concerns Madelon, I must now confess that it is she alone to
whom you owe this compliance on my part. She loves you with an
intensity which I should not have credited the delicate child with.
Directly you had gone she threw herself at my feet, clasped my
knees, and confessed amid endless tears that she could not live
without you. I thought she only fancied so, as so often happens with
young and love- sick girls; they think they shall die at once the
first time a milky- faced boy looks kindly upon them. But my Madelon
did really become ill and begin to pine away; and when I tried to
talk her out of her foolish silly notions, she only uttered your
name scores of times. What on earth could I do if I didn't want her
to die away in despair? Last evening I told her I would give my
consent to her dearest wishes, and would come and fetch you to-day.
And during the night she has blossomed up like a rose, and is now
waiting for you with all the longing impatience of love.'
"May God in heaven forgive me! I don't know myself
how it came about, but I suddenly found myself in Cardillac's house;
and Madelon cried aloud with joy, 'Olivier! my Olivier! my darling!
my husband!' as she rushed towards me and threw both her arms round
my neck, pressing me close to her bosom, till in a perfect delirium
of passionate delight I swore by the Virgin and all the saints that
I would never, never leave her."
Olivier was so deeply agitated by the recollection
of this fateful moment, that he was obliged to pause. De Scudéri,
struck with horror at this foul iniquity in a man whom she had
always looked upon as a model of virtue and honest integrity, cried,
"Oh! it is horrible! So René Cardillac belongs to the murderous band
which has so long made our good city a mere bandits' haunt?" "What
do you say, Mademoiselle, to the band?"
said Olivier. "There has never been such a band. It was Cardillac
alone who, active in wickedness, sought
for his victims and found them throughout the entire city. And it
was because he acted alone that he was enabled to carry on his
operations with so much security, and from the same cause arose the
insuperable difficulty of getting a clue to the murderer. But let me
go on with my story; the sequel will explain to you the secrets of
the most atrocious but at the same time of the most unfortunate of
men.
"The situation in which I now found myself fixed
at my master's may be easily imagined. The step was taken; I could
not go back. At times I felt as though I were Cardillac's accomplice
in crime; the only thing that made me forget the inner anguish that
tortured me was Madelon's love, and it was only in her presence that
I succeeded in totally suppressing all external signs of the
nameless trouble and anxiety I had in my heart. When I was working
with the old man in the shop, I could never look him in the face;
and I was hardly able to speak a word, owing to the awful dread with
which I trembled whenever near the villain, who fulfilled all the
duties of a faithful and tender father, and of a good citizen,
whilst the night veiled his monstrous iniquity. Madelon, dutiful,
pure, confiding as an angel, clung to him with idolatrous affection.
The thought often struck like a dagger to my heart that, if justice
should one day overtake the reprobate and unmask him, she, deceived
by the diabolical arts of the foul Fiend, would assuredly die in the
wildest agonies of despair. This alone would keep my lips locked,
even though it brought upon me a criminal's death. Notwithstanding
that I picked up a good deal of information from the talk of the
Maréchaussée yet the motive for
Cardillac's atrocities, as well as his manner of accomplishing them,
still remained riddles to me; but I had not long to wait for the
solution.
"One day Cardillac was very grave and preoccupied
over his work, instead of being in the merriest of humours, jesting
and laughing as he usually did, and so provoking my abhorrence of
him. All of a sudden he threw aside the ornament he was working at,
so that the pearls and other stones rolled across the floor, and
starting to his feet he exclaimed, 'Olivier, things can't go on in
this way between us; the footing we are now on is getting
unbearable. Chance has played into your hands the knowledge of a
secret which has baffled the most inventive cunning of Desgrais and
all his myrmidons. You have seen me at my midnight work, to which I
am goaded by my evil destiny; no resistance is ever of any avail.
And your evil destiny it was which led you to follow me, which
wrapped you in an impenetrable veil and gave you the lightness of
foot which, enabled you to walk as noiselessly as the smallest
insect, so that I, who in the blackest night see as plainly as a
tiger and hear the slightest noise, the humming of midges, far away
along the streets, did not perceive you near me. Your evil star has
brought you to me, my associate. As you are now circumstanced there
can be no thought of treachery on your part, and so you may now know
all.' 'Never, never will I be your associate, you hypocritical
reprobate,' I endeavoured to cry out, but I felt a choking sensation
in my throat, caused by the dread which came upon me as Cardillac
spoke. Instead of speaking words, I only gasped out certain
unintelligible sounds. Cardillac again sat down on his bench, drying
the perspiration from his brow. He appeared to be fearfully agitated
by his recollections of the past and to have difficulty in
preserving his composure. But at length he began.
"'Learned men say a good deal about the
extraordinary impressions of which women are capable when
enceinte, and of the singular influence
which such a vivid involuntary external impression has upon the
unborn child. I was told a surprising story about my mother. About
eight months before I was born, my mother accompanied certain other
women to see a splendid court spectacle in the Trianon.19
There her eyes fell upon a cavalier wearing a Spanish costume, who
wore a flashing jewelled chain round his neck, and she could not
keep her eyes off it. Her whole being was concentrated into desire
to possess the glittering stones, which she regarded as something of
supernatural origin. Several years previously, before my mother was
married, the same cavalier had paid his insidious addresses to her,
but had been repulsed with indignant scorn. My mother knew him
again; but now by the gleam of the brilliant diamonds he appeared to
her to be a being of a higher race--the paragon of beauty. He
noticed my mother's looks of ardent desire. He believed he should
now be more successful than formerly. He found means to approach
her, and, yet more, to draw her away from her acquaintances to a
retired place. Then he clasped her passionately in his arms, whilst
she laid hold of the handsome chain; but in that moment the cavalier
reeled backwards, dragging my mother to the ground along with him.
Whatever was the cause--whether he had a sudden stroke, or whether
it was due to something else--enough, the man was dead. All my
mother's efforts to release herself from the stiffened arms of the
corpse proved futile. His glazed eyes, their faculty of vision now
extinguished, were fixed upon her; and she lay on the ground with
the dead man. At length her piercing screams for help reached the
ears of some people passing at a distance; they hurried up and freed
her from the arms of her ghastly lover. The horror prostrated her in
a serious illness. Her life, and mine too, was despaired of; but she
recovered, and her accouchement was more favourable than could have
been expected. But the terror of that fearful moment had left its
stamp upon me. The evil star of my destiny
had got in the ascendant and shot down its sparks upon me,
enkindling in me a most singular but at the same time a most
pernicious passion. Even in the earliest days of my childhood there
was nothing I thought so much of as I did of flashing diamonds and
ornaments of gold. It was regarded as an ordinary childish
inclination. But the contrary was soon made manifest, for when a boy
I stole all the gold and jewellery I could anywhere lay my hands on.
Like the most experienced goldsmith I could distinguish by instinct
false jewellery from real. The latter alone proved an attraction to
me; objects made of imitated gold as well as gold coins I heeded not
in the least. My inborn propensity had, however, to give way to the
excessively cruel thrashings which I received at my father's hand.
"'I adopted the trade of a goldsmith, merely that
I might be able to handle gold and precious stones. I worked with
passionate enthusiasm and soon became the first master in the craft.
But now began a period in which my innate propensity, so long
repressed, burst forth with vehemence and grew most rapidly,
imbibing nourishment from everything about it. So soon as I had
completed a piece of jewellery, and had delivered it up to the
customer, I fell into a state of unrest, of desperate disquiet,
which robbed me of sleep and health and courage for my daily life.
Day and night the person for whom I had done the work stood before
my eyes like a spectre, adorned with my jewellery, whilst a voice
whispered in my ears, "Yes, it's yours; yes it's yours. Go and take
it. What does a dead man want diamonds for?" Then I began to
practise thievish arts. As I had access to the houses of the great,
I speedily turned every opportunity to good account: no lock could
baffle my skill; and I soon had the object which I had made in my
hands again. But after a time even that did not banish my unrest.
That unearthly voice still continued to make itself heard in my
ears, mocking me to scorn, and crying, "Ho! ho! a dead man is
wearing your jewellery." By some inexplicable means, which I do not
understand, I began to conceive an unspeakable hatred of those for
whom I made my ornaments. Ay, deep down in my heart there began to
stir a murderous feeling against them, at which I myself trembled
with apprehension.
"'About this time I bought this house. I had just
struck a bargain with the owner; we were sitting in this room
drinking a glass of wine together and enjoying ourselves over the
settlement of our business. Night had come; I rose to go; then the
vendor of the house said, "See here, Master René; before you go, I
must make you acquainted with the secret of the place." Therewith he
unlocked that press let into the wall there, pushed away the panels
at the back, and stepped into a little room, where, stooping down,
he lifted up a trap-door. We descended a flight of steep, narrow
stairs, and came to a narrow postern, which he unlocked, and let us
out into the court-yard. Then the old gentleman, the previous owner
of the house, stepped up to the wall and pressed an iron knob, which
projected only very triflingly from it; immediately a portion of the
wall swung round, so that a man could easily slip through the
opening, and in that way gain the street. I will show you the neat
contrivance some day, Olivier; very likely it was constructed by the
cunning monks of the monastery which formerly stood on this site, in
order that they might steal in and out secretly. It is a piece of
wood, plastered with mortar and white-washed on the outside only,
and within it, on the side next the street, is fixed a statue, also
of wood, but coloured to look exactly like stone, and the whole
piece, together with the statue, moves upon concealed hinges. Dark
thoughts swept into my mind when I saw this contrivance; it appeared
to have been built with a predestined view to such deeds as yet
remained unknown to myself.
"'I had just completed a valuable ornament for a
courtier, and knew that he intended it for an opera-dancer. The
ominous torture assailed me again; the spectre dogged my footsteps;
the whispering fiend was at my ear. I took possession of my new
house. I tossed sleeplessly on my couch, bathed in perspiration,
caused by the hideous torments I was enduring. In imagination I saw
the man gliding along to the dancer's abode with my ornament. I
leapt up full of fury; threw on my mantle, went down by the secret
stairs, through the wall, and into the Rue Nicaise. He is coming
along; I throw myself upon him; he screams out; but I have seized
him fast from behind, and driven my dagger right into his heart; the
ornament is mine. This done I experienced a calmness, a satisfaction
in my soul, which I had never yet experienced. The spectre had
vanished; the voice of the fiend was still. Now I knew what my evil
Destiny wanted; I had either to yield to it or to perish. And now
too you understand the secret of all my conduct, Olivier. But do not
believe, because I must do that for which there is no help, that
therefore I have entirely lost all sense of pity, of compassion,
which is said to be one of the essential properties of human nature.
You know how hard it is for me to part with a finished piece of
work, and that there are many for whom I refuse to work at all,
because I do not wish their death; and it has also happened that
when I felt my spectre would have to be exorcised on the following
day by blood, I have satisfied it with a stout blow of the fist the
same day, which stretched on the ground the owner of my jewel, and
delivered the jewel itself into my hand.'
"Having told me all this Cardillac took me into
his secret vault and granted me a sight of his jewel-cabinet; and
the king himself has not one finer. A short label was attached to
each article, stating accurately for whom it was made, when it was
recovered, and whether by theft, or by robbery from the person
accompanied with violence, or by murder. Then Cardillac said in a
hollow and solemn voice, 'On your wedding-day, Olivier, you will
have to lay your hand on the image of the crucified Christ and swear
a solemn oath that after I am dead you will reduce all these riches
to dust, through means which I shall then, before I die, disclose to
you. I will not have any human creature, and certainly neither
Madelon nor you, come into possession of this blood- bought
treasure-store.' Entangled in this labyrinth of crime, and with my
heart lacerated by love and abhorrence, by rapture and horror, I
might be compared to the condemned mortal whom a lovely angel is
beckoning upwards with a gentle smile, whilst on the other hand
Satan is holding him fast in his burning talons, till the good
angel's smiles of love, in which are reflected all the bliss of the
highest heaven, become converted into the most poignant of his
miseries. I thought of flight--ay, even of suicide--but Madelon!
Blame me, reproach me, honoured lady, for my too great weakness in
not fighting down by an effort of will a passion that was fettering
me to crime; but am I not about to atone for my fault by a death of
shame?
"One day Cardillac came home in uncommonly good
spirits. He caressed Madelon, greeted me with the most friendly
good-will, and at dinner drank a bottle of better wine, of a brand
that he only produced on high holidays and festivals, and he also
sang and gave vent to his feelings in exuberant manifestations of
joy. When Madelon had left us I rose to return to the workshop. 'Sit
still, lad,' said Cardillac; 'we'll not work any more to-day. Let us
drink another glass together to the health of the most estimable and
most excellent lady in Paris.' After I had joined glasses with him
and had drained mine to the bottom, he went on, 'Tell me, Olivier,
how do you like these verses,'
'Un amant qui craint les voleuis
N'est point digne d'amour.'
"Then he went on to relate the episode between you
and the king in De Maintenon's salons, adding that he had always
honoured you as he never had any other human creature, and that you
were gifted with such lofty virtue as to make his ill-omened star of
Destiny grow pale, and that if you were to wear the handsomest
ornament he ever made it would never provoke in him either an evil
spectre or murderous thoughts. 'Listen now, Olivier,' he said, 'what
I have made up my mind to do. A long time ago I received an order
for a necklace and a pair of bracelets for Henrietta of England,20
and the stones were given me for the purpose. The work turned out
better than the best I had ever previously done; but my heart was
torn at the thought of parting from the ornaments, for they had
become my pet jewels. You are aware of the Princess's unhappy death
by sinister means. The ornaments I retained, and will now send them
to Mademoiselle de Scudéri in the name of the persecuted band of
robbers as a token of my respect and gratitude. Not only will
Mademoiselle receive an eloquent token of her triumph, but I shall
also laugh Desgrais and his associates to scorn, as they deserve to
be laughed at. You shall take her the ornaments.' As Cardillac
mentioned your name, Mademoiselle, I seemed to see a dark veil
thrown aside, revealing the fair, bright picture of my early happy
childhood days in gay and cheerful colours. A wondrous source of
comfort entered my soul, a ray of hope, before which all my dark
spirits faded away. Possibly Cardillac noted the effect which his
words had upon me and interpreted it in his own way, 'You appear to
find pleasure in my plan,' he said. 'And I may as well state to you
that I have been commanded to do this by an inward monitor deep down
in my heart, very different from that which demands its holocaust of
blood like some ravenous beast of prey. I often experience very
remarkable feelings; I am powerfully affected by an inward
apprehension, by fear of something terrible, the horrors of which
breathe upon me in the air from a far-distant world of the
Supernatural. I then feel even as if the crimes I commit as the
blind instrument of my ill-starred Destiny may be charged upon my
immortal soul, which has no share in them. During one such mood I
vowed to make a diamond crown for the Holy Virgin in St. Eustace's
Church. But so often as I thought seriously about setting to work
upon it, I was overwhelmed by this unaccountable apprehension, so
that I gave up the project altogether. Now I feel as if I must
humbly offer an acknowledgment at the altar of virtue and piety by
sending to De Scudéri the handsomest ornaments I have ever worked.'
"Cardillac, who was intimately acquainted with
your habits and ways of life. Mademoiselle, gave me instructions
respecting the manner and the hour--the how and the when--in which I
was to deliver the ornaments, which he locked in an elegant case,
into your hands. I was completely thrilled with delight, for Heaven
itself now pointed out to me through the miscreant Cardillac, a way
by which I might rescue myself from the hellish thraldom in which I,
a sinner and outcast, was slowly perishing; these at least were my
thoughts. In express opposition to Cardillac's will I resolved to
force myself in to an interview with you. I intended to reveal
myself as Anne Brusson's son, as your own adoptive child, and to
throw myself at your feet and confess all--all. I knew that you
would have been so touched by the overwhelming misery which would
have threatened poor innocent Madelon by any disclosure that you
would have respected the secret; whilst your keen, sagacious mind
would, I felt assured, have devised some means by which Cardillac's
infamous wickedness might have been prevented without any exposure.
Pray do not ask me what shape these means would have taken; I do not
know. But that you would save Madelon and me, of that I was most
firmly convinced, as firmly as I believe in the comfort and help of
the Holy Virgin. You know how my intention was frustrated that
night, Mademoiselle. I still cherished the hope of being more
successful another time. Soon after this Cardillac seemed suddenly
to lose all his good-humour. He went about with a cloudy brow, fixed
his eyes on vacancy in front of him, murmured unintelligible words,
and gesticulated with his hands, as if warding off something hostile
from him; his mind appeared to be tormented by evil thoughts. Thus
he behaved during the course of one whole morning. Finally he sat
down to his work-table; but he soon leapt up again peevishly and
looked out of the window, saying moodily and earnestly, 'I wish
after all that Henrietta of England had worn my ornaments.' These
words struck terror to my heart. Now I knew that his warped mind was
again enslaved by the abominable spectre of murder, and that the
voice of the fiend was again ringing audibly in his ears. I saw your
life was threatened by the villainous demon of murder. If Cardillac
only had his ornaments in his hands again, you were saved.
"Every moment the danger increased. Then I met you
on the Pont Neuf, and forced my way to your carriage, and threw you
that note, beseeching you to restore the ornaments which you had
received to Cardillac's hands at once. You did not come. My distress
deepened to despair when on the following day Cardillac talked about
nothing else but the magnificent ornaments which he had seen before
his eyes during the night. I could only interpret that as having
reference to your jewellery, and I was certain that he was brooding
over some fresh murderous onslaught which he had assuredly
determined to put into execution during the coming night. I must
save you, even if it cost Cardillac's own life. So soon as he had
locked himself in his own room after evening prayers, according to
his wont, I climbed out of a window into the court-yard, slipped
through the opening in the wall, and took up my station at no great
distance, hidden in the deep shade. I had not long to wait before
Cardillac appeared and stole softly up the street, me following him.
He bent his steps towards the Rue St. Honoré; my heart trembled with
apprehension. All of a sudden I lost sight of him. I made up my mind
to take post at your house-door. Then there came an officer past me,
without perceiving me, singing and gaily humming a tune to himself,
as on the occasion when chance first made me a witness of
Cardillac's bloody deeds. But that selfsame moment a dark figure
leapt forward and fell upon the officer. It was Cardillac. This
murder I would at any rate prevent. With a loud shout I reached the
spot in two or three bounds, when, not the officer, but Cardillac,
fell on the floor groaning. The officer let his dagger fall, and
drawing his sword put himself in a posture for fighting, imagining
that I was the murderer's accomplice; but when he saw that I was
only concerned about the slain man, and did not trouble myself about
him, he hurried away. Cardillac was still alive. After picking up
and taking charge of the dagger which the officer had let fall, I
loaded my master upon my shoulders and painfully hugged him home,
carrying him up to the workshop by way of the concealed stairs. The
rest you know.
"You see, honoured lady, that my only crime
consists in the fact that I did not betray Madelon's father to the
officers of the law, and so put an end to his enormities. My hands
are clean of any deed of blood. No torture shall extort from me a
confession of Cardillac's crimes. I will not, in defiance of the
Eternal Power, which veiled the father's hideous bloodguiltiness
from the eyes of the virtuous daughter, be instrumental in unfolding
all the misery of the past, which would now have a far more
disastrous effect upon her, nor do I wish to aid worldly vengeance
in rooting up the dead man from the earth which covers him, nor that
the executioner should now brand the mouldering bones with
dishonour. No; the beloved of my soul will weep for me as one who
has fallen innocent, and time will soften her sorrow; but how
irretrievable a shock would it be if she learnt of the fearful and
diabolical deeds of her dearly-loved father."
Olivier paused; but now a torrent of tears
suddenly burst from his eyes, and he threw himself at De Scudéri's
feet imploringly. "Oh! now you are convinced of my innocence--oh!
surely you must be! have pity upon me; tell me how my Madelon bears
it." Mademoiselle summoned La Martinière, and in a few moments more
Madelon's arms were round Olivier's neck. "Now all is well again
since you are here. I knew it, I knew this most noble-minded lady
would save you," cried Madelon again and again; and Olivier forgot
his situation and all that was impending over him, he was free and
happy. It was most touching to hear the two mutually pour out all
their troubles, and relate all that they had suffered for one
another's sake; then they embraced one another anew, and wept with
joy to see each other again.
If De Scudéri had not been already convinced of
Olivier's innocence she would assuredly have been satisfied of it
now as she sat watching the two, who forgot the world and their
misery and their excessive sufferings in the happiness of their deep
and genuine mutual affection. "No," she said to herself, "it is only
a pure heart which is capable of such happy oblivion."
The bright beams of morning broke in through the
window. Desgrais knocked softly at the room door, and reminded those
within that it was time to take Olivier Brusson away, since this
could not be done later without exciting a commotion. The lovers
were obliged to separate.
The dim shapeless feelings which had taken
possession of De Scudéri's mind on Olivier's first entry into the
room, had now acquired form and content--and in a fearful way. She
saw the son of her dear Anne innocently entangled in such a way that
there hardly seemed any conceivable means of saving him from a
shameful death. She honoured the young man's heroic purpose in
choosing to die under an unjust burden of guilt rather than divulge
a secret that would certainly kill his Madelon. In the whole region
of possibility she could not find any means whatever to snatch the
poor fellow out of the hands of the cruel tribunal. And yet she had
a most clear conception that she ought not to hesitate at any
sacrifice to avert this monstrous perversion of justice which was on
the point of being committed. She racked her brain with a hundred
different schemes and plans, some of which bordered upon the
extravagant, but all these she rejected almost as soon as they
suggested themselves. Meanwhile the rays of hope grew fainter and
fainter, till at last she was on the verge of despair. But Madelon's
unquestioning child-like confidence, the rapturous enthusiasm with
which she spoke of her lover, who now, absolved of all guilt, would
soon clasp her in his arms as his bride, infused De Scudéri with new
hope and courage, exactly in proportion as she was the more touched
by the girl's words.
At length, for the sake of doing something. De
Scudéri wrote a long letter to La Regnie, in which she informed him
that Olivier Brusson had proved to her in the most convincing manner
his perfect innocence of Cardillac's death, and that it was only his
heroic resolve to carry with him into the grave a secret, the
revelation of which would entail disaster upon virtue and innocence,
that prevented him making a revelation to the court which would
undoubtedly free him, not only from the fearful suspicion of having
murdered Cardillac, but also of having belonged to a band of vile
assassins. De Scudéri did all that burning zeal, that ripe and
spirited eloquence could effect, to soften La Regnie's hard heart.
In the course of a few hours La Regnie replied that he was heartily
glad to learn that Olivier Brusson had justified himself so
completely in the eyes of his noble and honoured protectress. As for
Olivier's heroic resolve to carry with him into the grave a secret
that had an important bearing upon the crime under investigation, he
was sorry to say that the Chambre Ardente
could not respect such heroic courage, but would rather be compelled
to adopt the strongest means to break it. At the end of three days
he hoped to be in possession of this extraordinary secret, which it
might be presumed would bring wonders to light.
De Scudéri knew only too well what those means
were by which the savage La Regnie intended to break Brusson's
heroic constancy. She was now sure that the unfortunate was
threatened with the rack. In her desperate anxiety it at length
occurred to her that the advice of a doctor of the law would be
useful, if only to effectuate a postponement of the torture. The
most renowned advocate in Paris at that time was Pierre Amaud
d'Andilly; and his sound knowledge and liberal mind were only to be
compared to his virtue and his sterling honesty. To him, therefore,
De Scudéri had recourse, and she told him all, so far as she could,
without violating Brusson's secret She expected that D'Andilly would
take up the cause of the innocent man with zeal, but she found her
hopes most bitterly deceived. The lawyer listened calmly to all she
had to say, and then replied in Boileau's words, smiling as he did
so, "Le vrai peut quelque fois n'être pas
vraisemblable"(Sometimes truth wears an improbable garb). He
showed De Scudéri that there were most noteworthy grounds for
suspicion against Brusson, that La Regnie's proceedings could
neither be called cruel nor yet hurried, rather they were perfectly
within the law--nay, that he could not act otherwise without
detriment to his duties as judge. He himself did not see his way to
saving Brusson from torture, even by the cleverest defence. Nobody
but Brusson himself could avert it, either by a candid confession or
at least by a most detailed account of all the circumstances
attending Cardillac's murder, and this might then perhaps furnish
grounds for instituting fresh inquiries. "Then I will throw myself
at the king's feet and pray for mercy," said De Scudéri, distracted,
her voice half choked by tears. "For Heaven's sake, don't do it,
Mademoiselle, don't do it. I would advise you to reserve this last
resource, for if it once fail it is lost to you for ever. The king
will never pardon a criminal of this class: he would draw down upon
himself the bitterest reproaches of the people, who would believe
their lives were always in danger. Possibly Brusson, either by
disclosing his secret or by some other means, may find a way to
allay the suspicions which are working against him. Then will be the
time to appeal to the king for mercy, for he will not inquire what
has been proved before the court, but be guided by his own inner
conviction." De Scudéri had no help for it but to admit that
D'Andilly with his great experience was in the right.
Late one evening she was sitting in her own room
in very great trouble, appealing to the Virgin and the Holy Saints,
and thinking whatever should she do to save the unhappy Brusson,
when La Martinière came in to announce that Count de Miossens,
colonel of the King's Guards, was urgently desiring to speak to
Mademoiselle.
"Pardon me, Mademoiselle," said Miossens, bowing
with military grace, "pardon me for intruding upon you so late, at
such an inconvenient hour. We soldiers cannot do as we like, and
then a couple of words will suffice to excuse me. It is on Olivier
Brusson's account that I have come." De Scudéri's attention was at
once on the stretch as to what was to follow, and she said, "Olivier
Brusson?--that most unhappy of mortals? What have you to do with
him?" "Yes, I did indeed think," continued Miossens smiling, "that
your protégé's name would be sufficient to
procure me a favourable hearing. All the public are convinced of
Brusson's guilt. But you, I know, cling to another opinion, which is
based, to be sure, upon the protestations of the accused, as it is
said; with me, however, it is otherwise. Nobody can be more firmly
convinced that Brusson is innocent of Cardillac's death than I am."
"Oh! go on and tell me; go on, pray!" exclaimed De Scudéri, whilst
her eyes sparkled with delight. Miossens continued, speaking with
emphasis, "It was I--I who stabbed the old goldsmith not far from
your house here in the Rue St. Honors." "By the Saints!--you--you?"
exclaimed Mademoiselle. "And I swear to you, Mademoiselle," went on
Miossens, "that I am proud of the deed. For let me tell you that
Cardillac was the most abandoned and hypocritical of villains, that
it was he who committed those dreadful murders and robberies by
night, and so long escaped all traps laid for him. Somehow, I can't
say how, a strong feeling of suspicion was aroused in my mind
against the old reprobate when he brought me an ornament I had
ordered and was so visibly disturbed on giving it to me; and then he
inquired particularly for whom I wanted the ornament, and also
questioned my valet in the most artful way as to when I was in the
habit of visiting a certain lady. I had long before noticed that all
the unfortunates who fell victims to this abominable epidemic of
murder and robbery bore one and the same wound. I felt sure that the
assassin had by practice grown perfect in inflicting it, and that it
must prove instantaneously fatal, and upon this he relied
implicitly. If it failed, then it would come to a fight on equal
terms. This led me to adopt a measure of precaution which is so
simple that I cannot comprehend why it did not occur to others, who
might then have safeguarded themselves against any murderous assault
that threatened them. I wore a light shirt of mail under my tunic.
Cardillac attacked me from behind. He laid hold upon me with the
strength of a giant, but the surely-aimed blow glanced aside from
the iron. That same moment I wrested myself free from his grasp, and
drove my dagger, which I held in readiness, into his heart." "And
you maintained silence?" asked De Scudéri; "you did not notify to
the tribunals what you had done?" "Permit me to remark," went on
Miossens, "permit me to remark, Mademoiselle, that such an
announcement, if it had not at once entailed disastrous results upon
me, would at any rate have involved me in a most detestable trial.
Would La Regnie, who ferrets out crime everywhere--would he have
believed my unsupported word if I had accused honest Cardillac, the
pattern of piety and virtue, of an attempted murder? What if the
sword of justice had turned its point against me?" "That would not
have been possible," said De Scudéri, "your birth--your rank"----
"Oh! remember Marshal de Luxembourg, whose whim for having his
horoscope cast by Le Sage brought him under the suspicion of being a
poisoner, and eventually into the Bastille. No! by St. Denis! I
would not risk my freedom for an hour-- not even the lappet of my
ear--in the power of that madman La Regnie, who only too well would
like to have his knife at the throats of all of us." "But do you
know you are bringing innocent Brusson to the scaffold?" "Innocent?"
rejoined Miossens, "innocent? Are you speaking of the villain
Cardillac's accomplice, Mademoiselle? he who helped him in his evil
deeds? who deserves to die a hundred deaths? No, indeed! He would
meet a just end on the scaffold. I have only disclosed to you,
honoured lady, the details of the occurrence on the presupposition
that, without delivering me into the hands of the
Chambre Ardent, you will yet find a way to
turn my secret to account on behalf of your
protégé."
De Scudéri was so enraptured at finding her
conviction of Brusson's innocence confirmed in such a decisive
manner that she did not scruple to tell the Count all, since he
already knew of Cardillac's iniquity, and to exhort him to accompany
her to see D'Andilly. To him all should be
revealed under the seal of secrecy, and he should advise them what
was to be done.
After De Scudéri had related all to D'Andilly down
to the minutest particulars, he inquired once more about several of
the most insignificant features. In particular he asked Count
Miossens whether he was perfectly satisfied that it was Cardillac
who had attacked him, and whether he would be able to identify
Olivier Brusson as the man who had carried away the corpse. De
Miossens made answer, "Not only did I very well recognise Cardillac
by the bright light of the moon, but I have also seen in La Regnie's
hands the dagger with which Cardillac was stabbed; it is mine,
distinguished by the elegant workmanship of the hilt. As I only
stood one yard from the young man, and his hat had fallen off, I
distinctly saw his features, and should certainly recognise him
again."
After gazing thoughtfully before him for some
minutes in silence, D'Andilly said, "Brusson cannot possibly be
saved from the hands of justice in any ordinary and regular way. Out
of consideration for Madelon he refuses to accuse Cardillac of being
the thievish assassin. And he must continue to do so, for even if he
succeeded in proving his statements by pointing out the secret exit
and the accumulated store of stolen jewellery, he would still be
liable to death as a partner in Cardillac's guilt. And the bearings
of things would not be altered if Count Miossens were to state to
the judges the real details of the meeting with Cardillac. The only
thing we can aim at securing is a postponement of the torture. Let
Count Miossens go to the Conciergerie,
have Olivier Brusson brought forward, and recognise in him the man
who carried away Cardillac's dead body. Then let him hurry off to La
Regnie and say, 'I saw a man stabbed in the Rue St. Honoré, and as I
stood close beside the corpse another man sprang forward and stooped
down over the dead body; but on finding signs of life in him he
lifted him on his shoulders and carried him away. This man I
recognise in Olivier Brusson.' This evidence would lead to another
hearing of Brusson and to his confrontation with Miossens. At all
events the torture would be delayed and further inquiries would be
instituted. Then will come the proper time to appeal to the king. It
may be left to your sagacity, Mademoiselle, to do this in the
adroitest manner. As far as my opinion goes, I think it would be
best to disclose to him the whole mystery. Brusson's confessions are
borne out by this statement of Count Miossens; and they may,
perhaps, be still further substantiated by secret investigations at
Cardillac's own house. All this could not afford grounds for a
verdict of acquittal by the court, but it might appeal to the king's
feelings, that it is his prerogative to speak mercy where the judge
can only condemn, and so elicit a favourable decision from His
Majesty." Count Miossens followed implicitly D'Andilly's advice; and
the result was what the latter had foreseen.
But now the thing was to get at the king; and this
was the most difficult part of all to accomplish, since he believed
that Brusson alone was the formidable assassin who for so long a
time had held all Paris enthralled by fear and anxiety, and
accordingly he had conceived such an abhorrence of him that he burst
into a violent fit of passion at the slightest allusion to the
notorious trial. De Maintenon, faithful to her principle of never
speaking to the king on any subject that was disagreeable, refused
to take any steps in the affair; and so Brusson's fate rested
entirely in De Scudéri's hands. After long deliberation she formed a
resolution which she carried into execution as promptly as she had
conceived it. Putting on a robe of heavy black, silk, and hanging
Cardillac's valuable necklace round her neck, and clasping the
bracelets on her arms, and throwing a black veil over her head, she
presented herself in De Maintenon's salons at a time when she knew
the king would be present there. This stately robe invested the
venerable lady's noble figure with such majesty as could not fail to
inspire respect, even in the mob of idle loungers who were wont to
collect in anterooms, laughing and jesting in frivolous and
irreverent fashion. They all shyly made way for her; and when she
entered the salon the king himself in his astonishment rose and came
to meet her. As his eyes fell upon the glitter of the costly
diamonds in the necklace and bracelets, he cried, "'Pon my soul,
that's Cardillac's jewellery!" Then, turning to De Maintenon, he
added with an arch smile, "See, Marchioness, how our fair bride
mourns for her bridegroom." "Oh! your Majesty," broke in De Scudéri,
taking up the jest and carrying it on, "would it indeed beseem a
deeply sorrowful bride to adorn herself in this splendid fashion?
No, I have quite broken off with that goldsmith, and should never
think about him more, were it not that the horrid recollection of
him being carried past me after he had been murdered so often recurs
to my mind." "What do you say?" asked the king. "What! you saw the
poor devil?" De Scudéri now related in a few words how she chanced
to be near Cardillac's house just as the murder was discovered--as
yet she did not allude to Brusson's being mixed up in the matter.
She sketched Madelon's excessive grief, told what a deep impression
the angelic child made upon her, and described in what way she had
rescued the poor girl out of Desgrais' hands, amid the approving
shouts of the people. Then came the scenes with La Regnie, with
Desgrais, with Brusson--the interest deepening and intensifying from
moment to moment. The king was so carried away by the extraordinary
graphic power and burning eloquence of Mademoiselle's narration that
he did not perceive she was talking about the hateful trial of the
abominable wretch Brusson; he was quite unable to utter a word; all
he could do was to let off the excess of his emotion by an
exclamation from time to time. Ere he knew where he was--he was so
utterly confused by this unprecedented tale which he had heard that
he was unable to order his thoughts--De Scudéri was prostrate at his
feet, imploring pardon for Olivier Brusson. "What are you doing?"
burst out the king, taking her by both hands and forcing her into a
chair. "What do you mean, Mademoiselle? This is a strange way to
surprise me. Oh! it's a terrible story. Who will guarantee me that
Brusson's marvellous tale is true?" Whereupon De Scudéri replied,
"Miossens' evidence--an examination of Cardillac's house--my
heart-felt conviction--and oh! Madelon's virtuous heart, which
recognised the like virtue in unhappy Brusson's." Just as the king
was on the point of making some reply he was interrupted by a noise
at the door, and turned round. Louvois, who during this time was
working in the adjoining apartment, looked in with an expression of
anxiety stamped upon his features. The king rose and left the room,
following Louvois.
The two ladies, both De Scudéri and De Maintenon,
regarded this interruption as dangerous, for having been once
surprised the king would be on his guard against falling a second
time into the trap set for him. Nevertheless after a lapse of some
minutes the king came back again; after traversing the room once or
twice at a quick pace, he planted himself immediately in front of De
Scudéri and, throwing his arms behind his back, said in almost an
undertone, yet without looking at her, "I should very much like to
see your Madelon." Mademoiselle replied, "Oh! my precious liege!
what a great--great happiness your condescension will confer upon
the poor unhappy child. Oh! the little girl only waits a sign from
you to approach, to throw herself at your feet." Then she tripped
towards the door as quickly as she was able in her heavy clothing,
and called out on the outside of it that the king would admit
Madelon Cardillac; and she came back into the room weeping and
sobbing with overpowering delight and gladness.
De Scudéri had foreseen that some such favour as
this might be granted and so had brought Madelon along with her, and
she was waiting with the Marchioness' lady-in-waiting with a short
petition in her hands that had been drawn up by D'Andilly. After a
few minutes she lay prostrate at the king's feet, unable to speak a
word. The throbbing blood was driven quicker and faster through the
poor girl's veins owing to anxiety, nervous confusion, shy
reverence, love, and anguish. Her cheeks were died with a deep
purple blush; her eyes shone with bright pearly tears, which from
time to time fell through her silken eyelashes upon her beautiful
lily-white bosom. The king appeared to be struck with the surprising
beauty of the angelic creature. He softly raised her up, making a
motion as if about to kiss the hand which he had grasped. But he let
it go again and regarded the lovely girl with tears in his eyes,
thus betraying how great was the emotion stirring within him. De
Maintenon softly whispered to Mademoiselle, "Isn't she exactly like
La Vallière,21
the little thing? There's hardly a pin's difference between them.
The king luxuriates in the most pleasing memories. Your cause is
won."
Notwithstanding the low tone in which De Maintenon
spoke, the king appeared to have heard what she said. A fleeting
blush passed across his face; his eye wandered past De Maintenon; he
read the petition which Madelon had presented to him, and then said
mildly and kindly, "I am quite ready to believe, my dear child, that
you are convinced of your lover's innocence; but let us hear what
the Chambre Ardente has got to say to it."
With a gentle wave of the hand he dismissed the young girl, who was
weeping as if her heart would break.
To her dismay De Scudéri observed that the
recollection of La Vallière, however beneficial it had appeared to
be at first, had occasioned the king to alter his mind as soon as De
Maintenon mentioned her name. Perhaps the king felt he was being
reminded in a too indelicate way of how he was about to sacrifice
strict justice to beauty, or perhaps he was like the dreamer, when,
on somebody's shouting to him, the lovely dream-images which he was
about to clasp, quickly vanish away. Perhaps he no longer saw
his La Vallière before his eyes, but only
thought of Sœur Louise de la Misèricorde (Louise the Sister of
Mercy),--the name La Vallière had assumed on joining the Carmelite
nuns--who worried him with her pious airs and repentance. What else
could they now do but calmly wait for the king's decision?
Meanwhile Count Miossens' deposition before the
Chambre Ardente had become publicly known;
and as it frequently happens that the people rush so readily from
one extreme to another, so on this occasion he whom they had at
first cursed as a most abominable murderer and had threatened to
tear to pieces, they now pitied, even before he ascended the
scaffold, as the innocent victim of barbarous justice. Now his
neighbours first began to call to mind his exemplary walk of life,
his great love for Madelon, and the faithfulness and touching
submissive affection which he had cherished for the old goldsmith.
Considerable bodies of the populace began to appear in a threatening
manner before La Regnie's palace and to cry out, "Give us Olivier
Brusson; he is innocent;" and they even stoned the windows, so that
La Regnie was obliged to seek shelter from the enraged mob with the
Maréchaussée.
Several days passed, and Mademoiselle heard not
the least intelligence about Olivier Brusson's trial. She was quite
inconsolable and went off to Madame de Maintenon; but she assured
her that the king maintained a strict silence about the matter, and
it would not be advisable to remind him of it. Then when she went on
to ask with a smile of singular import how little La Vallière was
doing, De Scudéri was convinced that deep down in the heart of the
proud lady there lurked some feeling of vexation at this business,
which might entice the susceptible king into a region whose charm
she could not understand. Mademoiselle need therefore hope for
nothing from De Maintenon.
At last, however, with D'Andilly's help, De
Scudéri succeeded in finding out that the king had had a long and
private interview with Count Miossens. Further, she learned that
Bontems, the king's most confidential valet and general agent, had
been to the Conciergerie and had an interview with Brusson, also
that the same Bontems had one night gone with several men to
Cardillac's house, and there spent a considerable time. Claude
Patru, the man who inhabited the lower storey, maintained that they
were knocking about overhead all night long, and he was sure that
Olivier had been with them, for he distinctly heard his voice. This
much was, therefore, at any rate certain, that the king himself was
having the true history of the circumstances inquired into; but the
long delay before he gave his decision was inexplicable. La Regnie
would no doubt do all he possibly could to keep his grip upon the
victim who was to be taken out of his clutches. And this annihilated
every hope as soon as it began to bud.
A month had nearly passed when De Maintenon sent
word to Mademoiselle that the king wished to see her that evening in
her salons.
De Scudéri's heart beat high; she knew that
Brusson's case would now be decided. She told poor Madelon so, who
prayed fervently to the Virgin and the saints that they would awaken
in the king's mind a conviction of Brusson's innocence.
Yet it appeared as though the king had completely
forgotten the matter, for in his usual way he dallied in graceful
conversation with the two ladies, and never once made any allusion
to poor Brusson. At last Bontems appeared, and approaching the king
whispered certain words in his ear, but in so low a tone that
neither De Maintenon nor De Scudéri could make anything out of them.
Mademoiselle's heart quaked. Then the king rose to his feet and
approached her, saying with brimming eyes, "I congratulate you,
Mademoiselle. Your protégé Olivier
Brusson, is free." The tears gushed from the old lady's eyes; unable
to speak a word, she was about to throw herself at the king's feet.
But he prevented her, saying, "Go, go, Mademoiselle. You ought to be
my advocate in Parliament and plead my causes, for, by St. Denis,
there's nobody on earth could withstand your eloquence; and yet," he
continued, "and yet when Virtue herself has taken a man under her
own protection, is he not safe from all base accusations, from the
Chambre Ardente and all other tribunals in
the world?" De Scudéri now found words and poured them out in a
stream of glowing thanks. The king interrupted her, by informing her
that she herself would find awaiting her in her own house still
warmer thanks than he had a right to claim from her, for probably at
that moment the happy Olivier was clasping his Madelon in his arms.
"Bontems shall pay you a thousand
Louis d'or,"
concluded the king. "Give them in my name to the little girl as a
dowry. Let her marry her Brusson, who doesn't deserve such good
fortune, and then let them both be gone out of Paris, for such is my
will."
La Martinière came running forward to meet her
mistress, and Baptiste behind her; the faces of both were radiant
with joy; both cried delighted, "He is here! he is free! O the dear
young people!" The happy couple threw themselves at Mademoiselle's
feet. "Oh! I knew it! I knew it!" cried Madelon. "I knew that you,
that nobody but you, would save my darling Olivier." "And O my
mother," cried Olivier, "my belief in you never wavered." They both
kissed the honoured lady's hands, and shed innumerable tears. Then
they embraced each other again and again, affirming that the
exquisite happiness of that moment outweighed all the unutterable
sufferings of the days that were past; and they vowed never to part
from each other till Death himself came to part them.
A few days later they were united by the blessing
of the priest. Even though it had not been the King's wish, Brusson
would not have stayed in Paris, where everything would have reminded
him of the fearful time of Cardillac's crimes, and where, moreover,
some accident might reveal in pernicious wise his dark secret, now
become known to several persons, and so his peace of mind might be
ruined for ever. Almost immediately after the wedding he set out
with his young wife for Geneva, Mademoiselle's blessings
accompanying them on the way. Richly provided with means through
Madelon's dowry, and endowed with uncommon skill at his trade, as
well as with every virtue of a good citizen, he led there a happy
life, free from care. He realised the hopes which had deceived his
father and had brought him at last to his grave.
A year after Brusson's departure there appeared a
public proclamation, signed by Harloy de Chauvalon, Archbishop of
Paris, and by the parliamentary advocate, Pierre Arnaud d'Andilly,
which ran to the effect that a penitent sinner had, under the seal
of confession, handed over to the Church a large and valuable store
of jewels and gold ornaments which he had stolen. Everybody who up
to the end of the year 1680 had lost ornaments by theft,
particularly by a murderous attack in the public street, was to
apply to D'Andilly, and then, if his description of the ornament
which had been stolen from him tallied exactly with any of the
pieces awaiting identification, and if further there existed no
doubt as to the legitimacy of his claim, he should receive his
property again. Many of those whose names stood on Cardillac's list
as having been, not murdered, but merely stunned by a blow,
gradually came one after the other to the parliamentary advocate,
and received, to their no little amazement, their stolen property
back again. The rest fell to the coffers of the Church of St.
Eustace.
FOOTNOTES TO "MADEMOISELLE DE SCUDÉRI":
Footnote
1
Madeleine de Scudéry (1607-1701), a native of Normandy, went to
Paris and became connected with the Hotel Rambouillet. Afterwards,
on its being broken up by the troubles of the Fronde, she formed a
literary circle of her own, their "Saturday gatherings" becoming
celebrated. Mademoiselle de Scudéry wrote some vapid and tedious
novels, amongst which were the Clélie
(1656), an historical romance, to be mentioned presently in the
text.]
Footnote
2 The
well-known wife of Scarron, then the successor of Madame de
Montespan in the favour of Louis XIV., and afterwards his wife.]
Footnote
3 A kind
of mounted gensdarmes or police.]
Footnote
4
Supposed to have been arsenic.]
Footnote
5 These
facts are all for the most part historically true.]
Footnote
6 Marie
M. d'Aubray, Marquise de Brinvilliers, a notorious poisoner,
executed July 16, 1676. Madame de Sévigné's
Lettres contain interesting information on the events of this
period. A special history of De Brinvillier's trial was also
published in the same year, 1676.]
Footnote
7 An old
servant of Sainte Croix's, whose real name was Jean Amelin.]
Footnote
8
Nicholas G. de la Reynie was born at Limoges in 1625; he acquired a
sort of Judge Jeffreys' reputation by his cruelties and
bloodthirstiness as president of the
Chambre
Ardente.]
Footnote
9 These
two ladies, Marie and Olympe Mancini, were sisters, nieces of
Mazarin. The latter was promoted to be head of the Queen's
household, and thus provoked the hatred of Madame de Montespan (the
King's mistress) and Louvois, through whose machinations she was
accused before the Chambre Ardente.]
Footnote
10
François Henry de Montmorency, Duke of Luxembourg, was known until
1661 by the name of Bouteville. His name stands high on the roll of
distinguished French Marshals.]
Footnote
11
François Michel Le Tellier, Marquis de Louvois (1639-91), Louis
XIV.'s minister at this time.]
Footnote
12 Her
real answer was, "Je le vois en ce moment; il est fort laid et fort
vilain; il est déguisé en conseiller d'état." (I see him at this
moment; he is very ugly and very hideous; he is disguised as a state
councillor.)]
Footnote
13 The
Marquis de la Fare had liaisons, first with Madame de Rochefort,
with Louvois for rival, and afterwards with Madame de la Sablière.]
Footnote
14 This
incident is not an invention of the author's. He states that he got
it from Wagenseil's Chronik von Nürnberg
(1697), the said Wagenseilius having been to Paris and paid a visit
to Mademoiselle de Scudéry herself. The answer this lady gave the
king is also historically true, according to Hoffmann, and it was
spoken under circumstances almost exactly like those represented in
the text.]
Footnote
15
The old
Louis d'Or of Louis XIV. = about £1, 0s.
3d. (Cf. A
Frederick d'or was a gold
coin worth five thalers.--Note, p. 281, vol. I.)]
Footnote
16 One
of Louis XIV.'s former mistresses--Marie de Roussille, Duchess de
Fontanges (1661-1681)--is described as being of great beauty, but
deficient in intellectual grace and charm of manner, and as being
arrogant and cold-hearted.]
Footnote
17 Jean
de la Chapelle (1655-1723) attempted to fill the gap left in the
dramatic world by Racine's retirement from play-writing, though,--it
is said, with but indifferent success.]
Footnote
18 It
was constructed after plans by this Claude Perrault in 1666-1670.]
Footnote
19 The
well-known pleasure castle erected by Louis XIV. at Versailles for
De Maintenon.]
Footnote
20
Daughter of Charles I. and Henrietta Maria of France; she died 29th
June, 1670, believing herself to have been poisoned; and this was
currently accepted in France, though now rejected by historians as
incorrect.]
Footnote
21
Françoise Louise, Duchess de La Vallière, a former mistress of Louis
XIV. On being supplanted in the monarch's favour by Madame de
Montespan, she entered the order of Carmelite nuns.
Pin-Up Weird Tales
Pyrmont had a larger concourse of visitors than ever
in the summer of 18--. The number of rich and illustrious strangers
increased from day to day, greatly exciting the zeal of speculators
of all kinds. Hence it was also that the owners of the faro-bank
took care to pile up their glittering gold in bigger heaps, in order
that this, the bait of the noblest game, which they, like good
skilled hunters, knew how to decoy, might preserve its efficacy.
Who does not know how fascinating an excitement
gambling is, particularly at watering-places, during the season,
where every visitor, having laid aside his ordinary habits and
course of life, deliberately gives himself up to leisure and ease
and exhilarating enjoyment? then gambling becomes an irresistible
attraction. People who at other times never touch a card are to be
seen amongst the most eager players; and besides, it is the fashion,
especially in higher circles, for every one to visit the bank in the
evening and lose a little money at play.
The only person who appeared not to heed this
irresistible attraction, and this injunction of fashion, was a young
German Baron, whom we will call Siegfried. When everybody else
hurried off to the play-house, and he was deprived of all means and
all prospect of the intellectual conversation he loved, he preferred
either to give reins to the flights of his fancy in solitary walks
or to stay in his own room and take up a book, or even indulge in
poetic attempts, in writing, himself.
As Siegfried was young, independent, rich, of
noble appearance and pleasing disposition, it could not fail but
that he was highly esteemed and loved, and that he had the most
decisive good-fortune with the fair sex. And in everything that he
took up or turned his attention to, there seemed to be a singularly
lucky star presiding over his actions. Rumour spoke of many
extraordinary love-intrigues which had been forced upon him, and out
of which, however ruinous they would in all likelihood have been for
many other young men, he escaped with incredible ease and success.
But whenever the conversation turned upon him and his good fortune,
the old gentlemen of his acquaintance were especially fond of
relating a story about a watch, which had happened in the days of
his early youth. For it chanced once that Siegfried, while still
under his guardian's care, had quite unexpectedly found himself so
straitened for money on a journey that he was absolutely obliged to
sell his gold watch, which was set with brilliants, merely in order
to get on his way. He had made up his mind that he would have to
throw away his valuable watch for an old song; but as there happened
to be in the hotel where he had put up at a young prince who was
just in want of such an ornament, the Baron actually received for it
more than it was really worth. More than a year passed and Siegfried
had become his own master, when he read in the newspapers in another
place that a watch was to be made the subject of a lottery. He took
a ticket, which cost a mere trifle, and won--the same gold watch set
with brilliants which he had sold. Not long afterwards he exchanged
this watch for a valuable ring. He held office for a short time
under the Prince of G----, and when he retired from his post the
Prince presented to him as a mark of his good-will the very
identical gold watch set with brilliants as before, together with a
costly chain.
From this story they passed to Siegfried's
obstinacy in never on any account touching a card; why, with his
strongly pronounced good-luck he had all the more inducement to
play; and they were unanimous in coming to the conclusion that the
Baron, notwithstanding all his other conspicuous good qualities, was
a miserly fellow, far too careful and far too stingy to expose
himself to the smallest possible loss. That the Baron's conduct was
in every particular the direct contrary of that of an avaricious man
had no weight with them; and as is so often the case, when the
majority have set their hearts upon tagging a questioning 'but' on
to the good name of a talented man, and are determined to find this
'but' at any cost, even though it should be in their own
imagination, so in the present case the sneering allusion to
Siegfried's aversion to play afforded them infinite satisfaction.
Siegfried was not long in learning what was being
said about him; and since, generous and liberal as he was, there was
nothing he hated and detested more than miserliness, he made up his
mind to put his traducers to shame by ransoming himself from this
foul aspersion at the cost of a couple of hundred
Louis d'or, or even more if need be,
however much disgusted he might feel at gambling. He presented
himself at the faro-bank with the deliberate intention of losing the
large sum which he had put in his pocket; but in play also the good
luck which stood by him in everything he undertook did not prove
unfaithful. Every card he chose won. The cabalistic calculations of
seasoned old players were shivered to atoms against the Baron's
play. No matter whether he changed his cards or continued to stake
on1
the same one, it was all the same: he was always a winner. In the
Baron they had the singular spectacle of a punter at variance with
himself because the cards fell favourable for him; and
notwithstanding that the explanation of his behaviour was pretty
patent, yet people looked at each other significantly and gave
utterance in no ambiguous terms to the opinion that the Baron,
carried along by his penchant for the marvellous, might eventually
become insane, for any player who could be dismayed at his run of
luck must surely be insane.
The very fact of having won a considerable sum of
money made it obligatory upon the Baron to go on playing until he
should have carried out his original purpose; for in all probability
his large win would be followed by a still larger loss. But people's
expectations were not in the remotest degree realised, for the
Baron's striking good-luck continued to attend him.
Without his being conscious of it, there began to
be awakened in his mind a strong liking for faro, which with all its
simplicity is the most ominous of games; and this liking continued
to increase more and more. He was no longer dissatisfied with his
good-luck; gambling fettered his attention and held him fast to the
table for nights and nights, so that he was perforce compelled to
give credence to the peculiar attraction of the game, of which his
friends had formerly spoken and which he would by no means allow to
be correct, for he was attracted to faro not by the thirst for gain,
but simply and solely by the game itself.
One night, just as the banker had finished a
taille, the Baron happened to raise his
eyes and observed that an elderly man had taken post directly
opposite to him and had got his eyes fixed upon him in a set, sad,
earnest gaze. And as long as play lasted, every time the Baron
looked up, his eyes met the stranger's dark sad stare, until at last
he could not help being struck with a very uncomfortable and
oppressive feeling. And the stranger only left the apartment when
play came to an end for the night. The following night he again
stood opposite the Baron, staring at him with unaverted gaze, whilst
his eyes had a dark mysterious spectral look. The Baron still kept
his temper. But when on the third night the stranger appeared again
and fixed his eyes, burning with a consuming fire, upon the Baron,
the latter burst out, "Sir, I must beg you to choose some other
place. You exercise a constraining influence upon my play."
With a painful smile the stranger bowed and left
the table, and the hall too, without uttering a word.
But on the next night the stranger again stood
opposite the Baron, piercing him through and through with his dark
fiery glance. Then the Baron burst out still more angrily than on
the preceding night, "If you think it a joke, sir, to stare at me,
pray choose some other time and some other place to do so; and now
have the"---- A wave of the hand towards the door took the place of
the harsh words the Baron was about to utter. And as on the previous
night, the stranger, after bowing slightly, left the hall with the
same painful smile upon his lips.
Siegfried was so excited and heated by play, by
the wine which he had taken, and also by the scene with the
stranger, that he could not sleep. Morning was already breaking,
when the stranger's figure appeared before his eyes. He observed his
striking, sharp-cut features, worn with suffering, and his sad
deep-set eyes just as he had stared at him; and he noticed his
distinguished bearing, which, in spite of his mean clothing,
betrayed a man of high culture. And then the air of painful
resignation with which the stranger submitted to the harsh words
flung at him, and fought down his bitter feelings with an effort,
and left the hall! "No," cried Siegfried, "I did him wrong--great
wrong. Is it indeed at all like me to blaze up in this rude, ill-
mannered way, like an uncultivated clown, and to offer insults to
people without the least provocation?" The Baron at last arrived at
the conviction that it must have been a most oppressive feeling of
the sharp contrast between them which had made the man stare at him
so; in the moment that he was perhaps contending with the bitterest
poverty, he (the Baron) was piling up heaps and heaps of gold with
all the superciliousness of the gambler. He resolved to find out the
stranger that very morning and atone to him for his rudeness.
And as chance would have it, the very first person
whom the Baron saw strolling down the avenue was the stranger
himself.
The Baron addressed him, offered the most profuse
apologies for his behaviour of the night before, and in conclusion
begged the stranger's pardon in all due form. The stranger replied
that he had nothing to pardon, since large allowances must be made
for a player deeply intent over his game, and besides, he had only
himself to blame for the harsh words he had provoked, since he had
obstinately persisted in remaining in the place where he disturbed
the Baron's play.
The Baron went further; he said there were often
seasons of momentary embarrassment in life which weighed with a most
galling effect upon a man of refinement, and he plainly hinted to
the stranger that he was willing to give the money he had won, or
even more still, if by that means he could perhaps be of any
assistance to him.
"Sir," replied the stranger, "you think I am in
want, but that is not indeed the case; for though poor rather than
rich, I yet have enough to satisfy my simple wants. Moreover, you
will yourself perceive that as a man of honour I could not possibly
accept a large sum of money from you as indemnification for the
insult you conceive you have offered me, even though I were not a
gentleman of birth."
"I think I understand you," replied the Baron
starting; "I am ready to grant you the satisfaction you demand."
"Good God!" continued the stranger--"Good God, how
unequal a contest it would be between us two! I am certain that you
think as I do about a duel, that it is not to be treated as a piece
of childish folly; nor do you believe that a few drops of blood,
which have perhaps fallen from a scratched finger, can ever wash
tarnished honour bright again. There are many cases in which it is
impossible for two particular individuals to continue to exist
together on this earth, even though the one live in the Caucasus and
the other on the Tiber; no separation is possible so long as the
hated foe can be thought of as still alive. In this case a duel to
decide which of the two is to give way to the other on this earth is
a necessity. Between us now, as I have just said, a duel would be
fought upon unequal terms, since nohow can my life be valued so
highly as yours. If I run you through, I destroy a whole world of
the finest hopes; and if I fall, then you have put an end to a
miserable existence, that is harrowed by the bitterest and most
agonising memories. But after all--and this is of course the main
thing--I don't conceive myself to have been in the remotest degree
insulted. You bade me go, and I went."
These last words the stranger spoke in a tone
which nevertheless betrayed the sting in his heart. This was enough
for the Baron to again apologise, which he did by especially
dwelling upon the fact that the stranger's glance had, he did not
know why, gone straight to his heart, till at last he could endure
it no longer.
"I hope then," said the stranger, "that if my
glance did really penetrate to your heart, it aroused you to a sense
of the threatening danger on the brink of which you are hovering.
With a light glad heart and youthful ingenuousness you are standing
on the edge of the abyss of ruin; one single push and you will
plunge headlong down without a hope of rescue. In a single word, you
are on the point of becoming a confirmed and passionate gambler and
ruining yourself."
The Baron assured him that he was completely
mistaken. He related the circumstances under which he had first gone
to the faro-table, and assured him that he entirely lacked the
gambler's characteristic disposition; all he wished was to lose two
hundred Louis d'or or so, and when he had
succeeded in this he intended to cease punting. Up to that time,
however, he had had the most conspicuous run of good-luck.
"Oh! but," cried the stranger, "oh! but it is
exactly this run of good- luck wherein lies the subtlest and most
formidable temptation of the malignant enemy. It is this run of
good-luck which attends your play, Baron,--the circumstances under
which you have begun to play,--nay, your entire behaviour whilst
actually engaged in play, which only too plainly betray how your
interest in it deepens and increases on each occasion; all--all this
reminds me only too forcibly of the awful fate of a certain unhappy
man, who, in many respects like you, began to play under
circumstances similar to those which you have described in your own
case. And therefore it was that I could not keep my eyes off you,
and that I was hardly able to restrain myself from saying in words
what my glances were meant to tell you. 'Oh! see--see--see the
demons stretching out their talons to drag you down into the pit of
ruin.' Thus I should like to have called to you. I was desirous of
making your acquaintance; and I have succeeded. Let me tell you the
history of the unfortunate man whom I mentioned; you will then
perhaps be convinced that it is no idle phantom of the brain when I
see you in the most imminent danger, and warn you."
The stranger and the Baron both sat down upon a
seat which stood quite isolated, and then the stranger began as
follows:--
"The same brilliant qualities which distinguish
you, Herr Baron, gained Chevalier Menars the esteem and admiration
of men and made him a favourite amongst women. In riches alone
Fortune had not been so gracious to him as she has been to you; he
was almost in want; and it was only through exercising the strictest
economy that he was enabled to appear in a state becoming his
position as the scion of a distinguished family. Since even the
smallest loss would be serious for him and upset the entire tenor of
his course of life, he dare not indulge in play; besides, he had no
inclination to do so, and it was therefore no act of self-sacrifice
on his part to avoid the tables. It is to be added that he had the
most remarkable success in everything which he took in hand, so that
Chevalier Menars' good-luck became a by-word.
"One night he suffered himself to be persuaded,
contrary to his practice, to visit a play-house. The friends whom he
had accompanied were soon deeply engaged in play.
"Without taking any interest in what was going
forward, the Chevalier, busied with thoughts of quite a different
character, first strode up and down the apartment and then stood
with his eyes fixed upon the gaming-table, where the gold continued
to pour in upon the banker from all sides. All at once an old
colonel observed the Chevalier, and cried out, 'The devil! Here
we've got Chevalier Menars and his good-luck amongst us, and yet we
can win nothing, since he has declared neither for the banker nor
for the punters. But we can't have it so any longer; he shall at
once punt for me.'
"All the Baron's attempts to excuse himself on the
ground of his lack of skill and total want of experience were of no
avail; the Colonel was not to be denied; the Chevalier must take his
place at the table.
"The Chevalier had exactly the same run of fortune
that you have, Herr Baron. The cards fell favourable for him, and he
had soon won a considerable sum for the Colonel, whose joy at his
grand thought of claiming the loan of Chevalier Menars' steadfast
good-luck knew no bounds.
"This good-luck, which quite astonished all the
rest of those present, made not the slightest impression upon the
Chevalier; nay, somehow, in a way inexplicable to himself, his
aversion to play took deeper root, so that on the following morning
when he awoke and felt the consequences of his exertion during the
night, through which he had been awake, in a general relaxation both
mental and physical, he took a most earnest resolve never again
under any circumstances to visit a play-house.
"And in this resolution he was still further
strengthened by the old Colonel's conduct; he had the most decided
ill-luck with every card he took up; and the blame for this run of
bad-luck he, with the most extraordinary infatuation, put upon the
Chevalier's shoulders. In an importunate manner he demanded that the
Chevalier should either punt for him or at any rate stand at his
side, so as by his presence to banish the perverse demon who always
put into his hands cards which never turned up right. Of course it
is well known that there is more absurd superstition to be found
amongst gamblers than almost anywhere else. The only way in which
the Chevalier could get rid of the Colonel was by declaring in a
tone of great seriousness that he would rather fight him than play
for him, for the Colonel was no great friend of duels. The Chevalier
cursed his good-nature in having complied with the old fool's
request at first.
"Now nothing less was to be expected than that the
story of the Baron's marvellously lucky play should pass from mouth
to mouth, and also that all sorts of enigmatical mysterious
circumstances should be invented and added on to it, representing
the Chevalier as a man in league with supernatural powers. But the
fact that the Chevalier in spite of his good-luck did not touch
another card, could not fail to inspire the highest respect for his
firmness of character, and so very much increase the esteem which he
already enjoyed.
"Somewhere about a year later the Chevalier was
suddenly placed in a most painful and embarrassing position owing to
the non-arrival of the small sum of money upon which he relied to
defray his current expenses. He was obliged to disclose his
circumstances to his most intimate friend, who without hesitation
supplied him with what he needed, at the same time twitting him with
being the most hopelessly eccentric fellow that ever was. 'Destiny,'
said he 'gives us hints in what way and where we ought to seek our
own benefit; and we have only our own indolence to blame if we do
not heed, do not understand these hints. The Higher Power that rules
over us has whispered quite plainly in your ears, If you want money
and property go and play, else you will be poor and needy, and never
independent, as long as you live.'
"And now for the first time the thought of how
wonderfully fortune had favoured him at the faro-bank took clear and
distinct shape in his mind; and both in his dreams and when awake he
heard the banker's monotonous gagne,
perd,2
and the rattle of the gold pieces. 'Yes, it is undoubtedly so,' he
said to himself, 'a single night like that one before would free me
from my difficulties, and help me over the painful embarrassment of
being a burden to my friends; it is my duty to follow the beckoning
finger of fate.' The friends who had advised him to try play,
accompanied him to the play-house, and gave him twenty
Louis d'or3
more that he might begin unconcerned.
"If the Chevalier's play had been splendid when he
punted for the old Colonel, it was indeed doubly so now. Blindly and
without choice he drew the cards he staked upon, but the invisible
hand of that Higher Power which is intimately related to Chance, or
rather actually is what we call Chance, seemed to be regulating his
play. At the end of the evening he had won a thousand
Louis d'or.
"Next morning he awoke with a kind of dazed
feeling. The gold pieces he had won lay scattered about beside him
on the table. At the first moment he fancied he was dreaming; he
rubbed his eyes; he grasped the table and pulled it nearer towards
him. But when he began to reflect upon what had happened, when he
buried his fingers amongst the gold pieces, when he counted them
with gratified satisfaction, and even counted them through again,
then delight in the base mammon shot for the first time like a
pernicious poisonous breath through his every nerve and fibre, then
it was all over with the purity of sentiment which he had so long
preserved intact. He could hardly wait for night to come that he
might go to the faro-table again. His good-luck continued constant,
so that after a few weeks, during which he played nearly every
night, he had won a considerable sum.
"Now there are two sorts of players. Play simply
as such affords to many an indescribable and mysterious pleasure,
totally irrespective of gain. The strange complications of chance
occur with the most surprising waywardness; the government of the
Higher Power becomes conspicuously evident; and this it is which
stirs up our spirit to move its wings and see if it cannot soar
upwards into the mysterious kingdom, the fateful workshop of this
Power, in order to surprise it at its labours.
"I once knew a man who spent many days and nights
alone in his room, keeping a bank and punting against himself; this
man was, according to my way of thinking, a genuine player. Others
have nothing but gain before their eyes, and look upon play as a
means to getting rich speedily. This class the Chevalier joined,
thus once more establishing the truth of the saying that the real
deeper inclination for play must lie in the individual nature--must
be born in it. And for this reason he soon found the sphere of
activity to which the punter is confined too narrow. With the very
large sum of money that he had won by gambling he established a bank
of his own; and in this enterprise fortune favoured him to such an
extent that within a short time his bank was the richest in all
Paris. And agreeably to the nature of the case, the largest
proportion of players flocked to him, the richest and luckiest
banker.
"The heartless, demoralising life of a gambler
soon blotted out all those advantages, as well mental as physical,
which had formerly secured to the Chevalier people's affection and
esteem. He ceased to be a faithful friend, a cheerful, easy guest in
society, a chivalrous and gallant admirer of the fair sex.
Extinguished was all his taste for science and art, and gone all
striving to advance along the road to sound knowledge. Upon his
deathly pale countenance, and in his gloomy eyes, where a dim,
restless fire gleamed, was to be read the full expression of the
extremely baneful passion in whose toils he was entangled. It was
not fondness for play, no, it was the most abominable avarice which
had been enkindled in his soul by Satan himself. In a single word,
he was the most finished specimen of a faro-banker that may be seen
anywhere.
"One night Fortune was less favourable to the
Chevalier than usual, although he suffered no loss of any
consequence. Then a little thin old man, meanly clad, and almost
repulsive to look at, approached the table, drew a card with a
trembling hand, and placed a gold piece upon it. Several of the
players looked up at the old man at first greatly astonished, but
after that they treated him with provoking contempt. Nevertheless
his face never moved a muscle, far less did he utter a single word
of complaint.
"The old man lost; he lost one stake after
another; but the higher his losses rose the more pleased the other
players got. And at last, when the new-comer, who continued to
double his stake every time, placed five hundred
Louis d'or at once upon a card and this
the very next moment turned up on the losing side, one of the other
players cried with a laugh, 'Good-luck, Signor Vertua, good-luck!
Don't lose heart. Go on staking; you look to me as if you would
finish with breaking the bank through your immense winnings.' The
old man shot a basilisk-like look upon the mocker and hurried away,
but only to return at the end of half an hour with his pockets full
of gold. In the last taille he was,
however, obliged to cease playing, since he had again lost all the
money he had brought back with him.
"This scornful and contemptuous treatment of the
old man had excessively annoyed the Chevalier, for in spite of all
his abominable practices, he yet insisted on certain rules of good
behaviour being observed at his table. And so on the conclusion of
the game, when Signor Vertua had taken his departure, the Chevalier
felt he had sufficient grounds to speak a serious word or two to the
mocker, as well as to one or two other players whose contemptuous
treatment of the old man had been most conspicuous, and whom the
Chevalier had bidden stay behind for this purpose.
"'Ah! but, Chevalier,' cried one of them, 'you
don't know old Francesco Vertua, or else you would have no fault to
find with us and our behaviour towards him; you would rather approve
of it. For let me tell you that this Vertua, a Neapolitan by birth,
who has been fifteen years in Paris, is the meanest, dirtiest, most
pestilent miser and usurer who can be found anywhere. He is a
stranger to every human feeling; if he saw his own brother writhing
at his feet in the agonies of death, it would be an utter waste of
pains to try to entice a single Louis d'or
from him, even if it were to save his brother's life. He has a heavy
burden of curses and imprecations to bear, which have been showered
down upon him by a multitude of men, nay, by entire families, who
have been plunged into the deepest distress through his diabolical
speculations. He is hated like poison by all who know him; everybody
wishes that vengeance may overtake him for all the evil that he has
done, and that it may put an end to his career of iniquity. He has
never played before, at least since he has been in Paris; and so
from all this you need not wonder at our being so greatly astounded
when the old skin-flint appeared at your table. And for the same
reasons we were, of course, pleased at the old fellow's serious
losses, for it would have been hard, very hard, if the old rascal
had been favoured by Fortune. It is only too certain. Chevalier,
that the old fool has been deluded by the riches of your bank. He
came intending to pluck you and has lost his own feathers. But yet
it completely puzzles me how Vertua could act thus in a way so
opposite to the true character of a miser, and could bring himself
to play so high. Ah! well--you'll see he will not come again; we are
now quit of him.'
"But this opinion proved to be far from correct,
for on the very next night Vertua presented himself at the
Chevalier's bank again, and staked and lost much more heavily than
on the night preceding. But he preserved a calm demeanour through it
all; he even smiled at times with a sort of bitter irony, as though
foreseeing how soon things would be totally changed. But during each
of the succeeding nights the old man's losses increased like a
glacier at a greater and greater rate, till at last it was
calculated that he had paid over thirty thousand
Louis d'or to the bank. Finally he entered
the hall one evening, long after play had begun, with a deathly pale
face and troubled looks, and took up his post at some distance from
the table, his eyes riveted in a set stare upon the cards which the
Chevalier successively drew. At last, just as the Chevalier had
shuffled the cards, had had them cut and was about to begin the
taille, the old man cried in such a harsh
grating voice, 'Stop!' that everybody looked round well-nigh
dismayed. Then, forcing his way to the table close up to the
Chevalier, he said in his ear, speaking in a hoarse voice,
'Chevalier, my house in the Rue St. Honoré, together with all the
furniture and all the gold and silver and all the jewels I possess,
are valued at eighty thousand francs, will you accept the stake?'
'Very good,' replied the Chevalier coldly, without looking round at
the old man; and he began the taille.
"'The queen,' said Vertua; and at the next draw
the queen had lost. The old man reeled back from the table and
leaned against the wall motionless and paralysed, like a rigid stone
statue. Nobody troubled himself any further about him.
"Play was over for the night; the players were
dispersing; the Chevalier and his croupiers4
were packing away in the strong box the gold he had won. Then old
Vertua staggered like a ghost out of the corner towards the
Chevalier and addressed him in a hoarse, hollow voice, 'Yet a word
with you, Chevalier,--only a single word.'
"'Well, what is it?' replied the Chevalier,
withdrawing the key from the lock of the strong box and measuring
the old man from head to foot with a look of contempt.
"'I have lost all my property at your bank,
Chevalier,' went on the old man; 'I have nothing, nothing left I
don't know where I shall lay my head tomorrow, nor how I shall
appease my hunger. You are my last resource, Chevalier; lend me the
tenth part of the sum I have lost to you that I may begin my
business over again, and so work my way up out of the distressed
state I now am in.'
"'Whatever are you thinking about,' rejoined the
Chevalier, 'whatever are you thinking about, Signor Vertua? Don't
you know that a faro- banker never dare lend of his winnings? That's
against the old rule, and I am not going to violate it.'
"'You are right,' went on Vertua again. 'You are
right, Chevalier. My request was senseless--extravagant--the tenth
part! No, lend me the twentieth part.' 'I tell you,' replied the
Chevalier impatiently, 'that I won't lend a farthing of my
winnings.'
"'True, true,' said Vertua, his face growing paler
and paler and his gaze becoming more and more set and staring,
'true, you ought not to lend anything--I never used to do. But give
some alms to a beggar--give him a hundred
Louis d'or of the riches which blind Fortune has thrown in your
hands to-day.'
"'Of a verity you know how to torment people,
Signor Vertua,' burst out the Chevalier angrily. 'I tell you you
won't get so much as a hundred, nor fifty, nor twenty, no, not so
much as a single Louis d'or from me. I
should be mad to make you even the smallest advance, so as to help
you begin your shameful trade over again. Fate has stamped you in
the dust like a poisonous reptile, and it would simply be villainy
for me to aid you in recovering yourself. Go and perish as you
deserve.'
"Pressing both hands over his face, Vertua sank on
the floor with a muffled groan. The Chevalier ordered his servant to
take the strong-box down to his carriage, and then cried in a loud
voice, 'When will you hand over to me your house and effects, Signor
Vertua?'
"Vertua hastily picked himself up from the ground
and said in a firm voice, 'Now, at once--this moment, Chevalier;
come with me.'
"'Good,' replied the Chevalier, 'you may ride with
me as far as your house, which you shall leave tomorrow for good.'
"All the way neither of them spoke a single word,
neither Vertua nor the Chevalier. Arrived in front of the house in
the Rue St. Honoré, Vertua pulled the bell; an old woman opened the
door, and on perceiving it was Vertua cried, 'Oh! good heavens,
Signor Vertua, is that you at last? Angela is half dead with anxiety
on your account.'
"'Silence,' replied Vertua. 'God grant she has not
heard this unlucky bell! She is not to know that I have come.' And
therewith he took the lighted candle out of the old woman's hand,
for she appeared to be quite stunned, and lighted the Chevalier up
to his own room.
"'I am prepared for the worst,' said Vertua. 'You
hate, you despise me, Chevalier. You have ruined me, to your own and
other people's joy; but you do not know me. Let me tell you then
that I was once a gambler like you, that capricious Fortune was as
favourable to me as she is to you, that I travelled through half
Europe, stopping everywhere where high play and the hope of large
gains enticed me, that the piles of gold continually increased in my
bank as they do in yours. I had a true and beautiful wife, whom I
neglected, and she was miserable in the midst of all her
magnificence and wealth. It happened once, when I had set up my bank
in Genoa, that a young Roman lost all his rich patrimony at my bank.
He besought me to lend him money, as I did you to-day, sufficient at
least to enable him to travel back to Rome. I refused with a laugh
of mocking scorn, and in the insane fury of despair he thrust the
stiletto which he wore right into my breast. At great pains the
surgeons succeeded in saving me; but it was a wearying painful time
whilst I lay on the bed of sickness. Then my wife tended me,
comforted me, and kept up my courage when I was ready to sink under
my sufferings; and as I grew towards recovery a feeling began to
glimmer within me which I had never experienced before, and it waxed
ever stronger and stronger. A gambler becomes an alien to all human
emotion, and hence I had not known what was the meaning of a wife's
love and faithful attachment. The debt of what I owed my wife burned
itself into my ungrateful heart, and also the sense of the
villainous conduct to which I had sacrificed her. All those whose
life's happiness, whose entire existence, I had ruined with
heartless indifference were like tormenting spirits of vengeance,
and I heard their hoarse hollow voices echoing from the grave,
upbraiding me with all the guilt and criminality, the seed of which
I had planted in their bosoms. It was only my wife who was able to
drive away the unutterable distress and horror that then came upon
me. I made a vow never to touch a card more. I lived in retirement;
I rent asunder all the ties which held me fast to my former mode of
life; I withstood the enticements of my croupiers, when they came
and said they could not do without me and my good-luck. I bought a
small country villa not far from Rome, and thither, as soon as I was
recovered of my illness, I fled for refuge along with my wife. Oh!
only one single year did I enjoy a calmness, a happiness, a peaceful
content, such as I had never dreamt of! My wife bore me a daughter,
and died a few weeks later. I was in despair; I railed at Heaven and
again cursed myself and my reprobate life, for which Heaven was now
exacting vengeance upon me by depriving me of my wife--she who had
saved me from ruin, who was the only creature who afforded me hope
and consolation. I was driven away from my country villa hither to
Paris, like the criminal who fears the horrors of solitude. Angela
grew up the lovely image of her mother; my heart was wholly wrapt up
in her; for her sake I felt called upon not so much to obtain a
large fortune for her as to increase what I had already got. It is
the truth that I lent money at a high rate of interest; but it is a
foul calumny to accuse me of deceitful usury. And who are these my
accusers? Thoughtless, frivolous people who worry me to death until
I lend them money, which they immediately go and squander like a
thing of no worth, and then get in a rage if I demand inexorable
punctuality in repayment of the money which does not indeed belong
to me,--no, but to my daughter, for I merely look upon myself as her
steward. It's not long since I saved a young man from disgrace and
ruin by advancing him a considerable sum. As I knew he was terribly
poor, I never mentioned a syllable about repayment until I knew he
had got together a rich property. Then I applied to him for
settlement of his debt Would you believe it, Chevalier? the
dishonourable knave, who owed all he had to me, tried to deny the
debt, and on being compelled by the court to pay me, reproached me
with being a villainous miser? I could tell you more such like
cases; and these things have made me hard and insensible to emotion
when I have to deal with folly and baseness. Nay, more--I could tell
you of the many bitter tears I have wiped away, and of the many
prayers which have gone up to Heaven for me and my Angela, but you
would only regard it as empty boasting, and pay not the slightest
heed to it, for you are a gambler. I thought I had satisfied the
resentment of Heaven; it was but a delusion, for Satan has been
permitted to lead me astray in a more disastrous way than before. I
heard of your good- luck. Chevalier. Every day I heard that this man
and that had staked and staked at your bank until he became a
beggar. Then the thought came into my mind that I was destined to
try my gambler's luck, which had never hitherto deserted me, against
yours, that the power was given me to put a stop to your practices;
and this thought, which could only have been engendered by some
extraordinary madness, left me no rest, no peace. Hence I came to
your bank; and my terrible infatuation did not leave me until all my
property--all my Angela's property--was yours. And now the end has
come. I presume you will allow my daughter to take her clothing with
her?'
"'Your daughter's wardrobe does not concern me,'
replied the Chevalier. 'You may also take your beds and other
necessary household utensils, and such like; for what could I do
with all the old lumber? But see to it that nothing of value of the
things which now belong to me get mixed up with it.'
"Old Vertua stared at the Chevalier a second or
two utterly speechless; then a flood of tears burst from his eyes,
and he sank upon his knees in front of the Chevalier, perfectly
upset with trouble and despair, and raised his hands crying,
'Chevalier, have you still a spark of human feeling left in your
breast? Be merciful, merciful. It is not I, but my daughter, my
Angela, my innocent angelic child, whom you are plunging into ruin.
Oh! be merciful to her; lend
her,
her, my
Angela, the twentieth part of the property you have deprived her of.
Oh! I know you will listen to my entreaty! O Angela! my daughter!'
And therewith the old man sobbed and lamented and moaned, calling
upon his child by name in the most heart-rending tones.
"'I am getting tired of this absurd theatrical
scene,' said the Chevalier indifferently but impatiently; but at
this moment the door flew open and in burst a girl in a white
night-dress, her hair dishevelled, her face pale as death,--burst in
and ran to old Vertua, raised him up, took him in her arms, and
cried, 'O father! O father! I have heard all, I know all! Have you
really lost everything-- everything, really? Have you not your
Angela? What need have we of money and property? Will not Angela
sustain you and tend you? O father, don't humiliate yourself a
moment longer before this despicable monster. It is not
we, but
he, who
is poor and miserable in the midst of his contemptible riches; for
see, he stands there deserted in his awful hopeless loneliness;
there is not a heart in all the wide world to cling lovingly to his
breast, to open out to him when he despairs of his own life, of
himself. Come, father. Leave this house with me. Come, let us make
haste and be gone, that this fearful man may not exult over your
trouble.'
"Vertua sank half fainting into an easy-chair.
Angela knelt down before him, took his hands, kissed them, fondled
them, enumerated with childish loquacity all the talents, all the
accomplishments, which she was mistress of, and by the aid of which
she would earn a comfortable living for her father; she besought him
from the midst of burning tears to put aside all his trouble and
distress, since her life would now first acquire true significance,
when she had to sew, embroider, sing, and play her guitar, not for
mere pleasure, but for her father's sake.
"Who, however hardened a sinner, could have
remained insensible at the sight of Angela, thus radiant in her
divine beauty, comforting her old father with sweet soft words,
whilst the purest affection, the most childlike goodness, beamed
from her eyes, evidently coming from the very depths of her heart?
"Quite otherwise was it with the Chevalier. A
perfect Gehenna of torment and of the stinging of conscience was
awakened within him. Angela appeared to him to be the avenging angel
of God, before whose splendour the misty veil of his wicked
infatuation melted away, so that he saw with horror the repulsive
nakedness of his own miserable soul. Yet right through the midst of
the flames of this infernal pit that was blazing in the Chevalier's
heart passed a divine and pure ray, whose emanations of light were
the sweetest rapture, the very bliss of heaven; but the shining of
this ray only made his unutterable torments the more terrible to
bear.
"The Chevalier had never been in love. The moment
in which he saw Angela was the moment in which he was to experience
the most ardent passion, and also at the same time the crushing pain
of utter hopelessness. For no man who had appeared before the pure
angel-child, lovely Angela, in the way the Chevalier had done, could
dream of hope. He attempted to speak, but his tongue seemed to be
numbed by cramp. At last, controlling himself with an effort, he
stammered with trembling voice, 'Signor Vertua, listen to me. I have
not won anything from you-- nothing at all. There is my strong box;
it is yours,--nay, I must pay you yet more than there is there. I am
your debtor. There, take it, take it!'
"'O my daughter!' cried Vertua. But Angela rose to
her feet, approached the Chevalier, and flashed a proud look upon
him, saying earnestly and composedly, *'Chevalier, allow me to tell
you that there is something higher than money and goods; there are
sentiments to which you are a stranger, which, whilst sustaining our
souls with the comfort of Heaven, bid us reject your gift, your
favour, with contempt. Keep your mammon, which is burdened with the
curse that pursues you, you heartless, depraved gambler.'
"'Yes,' cried the Chevalier in a fearful voice,
his eyes flashing wildly, for he was perfectly beside himself, 'yes,
accursed,--accursed will I be--down into the depths of damnation may
I be hurled if ever again this hand touches a card. And if you then
send me from you, Angela, then it will be you who will bring
irreparable ruin upon me. Oh! you don't know--you don't understand
me. You can't help but call me insane; but you will feel it--you
will know all, when you see me stretched at your feet with my brains
scattered. Angela! It's now a question of life or death! Farewell!'
"Therewith the Chevalier rushed off in a state of
perfect despair. Vertua saw through him completely; he knew what
change had come over him; he endeavoured to make his lovely Angela
understand that certain circumstances might arise which would make
it necessary to accept the Chevalier's present Angela trembled with
dread lest she should understand her father. She did not conceive
how it would ever be possible to meet the Chevalier on any other
terms save those of contempt. Destiny, which often ripens into shape
deep down in the human heart, without the mind being aware of it,
permitted that to take place which had never been thought of, never
been dreamed of.
"The Chevalier was like a man suddenly wakened up
out of a fearful dream; he saw himself standing on the brink of the
abyss of ruin, and stretched out his arms in vain towards the bright
shining figure which had appeared to him, not, however, to save
him--no--but to remind him of his damnation.
"To the astonishment of all Paris, Chevalier
Menars' bank disappeared from the gambling-house; nobody ever saw
him again; and hence the most diverse and extraordinary rumours were
current, each of them more false than the rest. The Chevalier
shunned all society; his love found expression in the deepest and
most unconquerable despondency. It happened, however, that old
Vertua and his daughter one day suddenly crossed his path in one of
the dark and lonely alleys of the garden of Malmaison.5
"Angela, who thought she could never look upon the
Chevalier without contempt and abhorrence, felt strangely moved on
seeing him so deathly pale, terribly shaken with trouble, hardly
daring in his shy respect to raise his eyes. She knew quite well
that ever since that ill-omened night he had altogether relinquished
gambling and effected a complete revolution in his habits of life.
She, she alone had brought all this about, she had saved the
Chevalier from ruin--could anything be more flattering to her
woman's vanity? Hence it was that, after Vertua had exchanged the
usual complimentary remarks with the Chevalier, Angela asked in a
tone of gentle and sympathetic pity, 'What is the matter with you,
Chevalier Menars? You are looking very ill and full of trouble. I am
sure you ought to consult a physician.'
"It is easy to imagine how Angela's words fell
like a comforting ray of hope upon the Chevalier's heart. From that
moment he was not like the same man. He lifted up his head; he was
able to speak in those tones, full of the real inward nature of the
man, with which he had formerly won all hearts. Vertua exhorted him
to come and take possession of the house he had won.
"'Yes, Signor Vertua,' cried the Chevalier with
animation, 'yes, that I will do. I will call upon you tomorrow; but
let us carefully weigh and discuss all the conditions of the
transfer, even though it should last some months.'
"'Be it so then, Chevalier,' replied Vertua,
smiling. 'I fancy that there will arise a good many things to be
discussed, of which we at the present moment have no idea.' The
Chevalier, being thus comforted at heart, could not fail to develop
again all the charms of manner which had once been so peculiarly his
own before he was led astray by his insane, pernicious passion for
gambling. His visits at old Vertua's grew more and more frequent;
Angela conceived a warmer and warmer liking for the man whose
safeguarding angel she had been, until finally she thought she loved
him with all her heart; and she promised him her hand, to the great
joy of old Vertua, who at last felt that the settlement respecting
the property he had lost to the Chevalier could now be concluded.
"One day Angela, Chevalier Menars' happy
betrothed, sat at her window wrapped up in varied thoughts of the
delights and happiness of love, such as young girls when betrothed
are wont to dwell upon. A regiment of
chasseurs passed by to the merry sound of the trumpet, bound for
a campaign in Spain. As Angela was regarding with sympathetic
interest the poor men who were doomed to death in the wicked war, a
young man wheeled his horse quickly to one side and looked up at
her, and she sank back in her chair fainting.
"Oh! the
chasseur who
was riding to meet a bloody death was none other than young
Duvernet, their neighbour's son, with whom she had grown up, who had
run in and out of the house nearly every day, and had only kept away
since the Chevalier had begun to visit them.
"In the young man's glance, which was charged with
reproaches having all the bitterness of death in them, Angela became
conscious for the first time, not only that he loved her
unspeakably, but also how boundless was the love which she herself
felt for him. Hitherto she had not been conscious of it; she had
been infatuated, fascinated by the glitter which gathered ever more
thickly about the Chevalier. She now understood, and for the first
time, the youth's labouring sighs and quiet unpretending homage; and
now too she also understood her own embarrassed heart for the first
time, knew what had caused the fluttering sensation in her breast
when Duvernet had come, and when she had heard his voice.
"'It is too late! I have lost him!' was the voice
that spoke in Angela's soul. She had courage enough to beat down the
feelings of wretchedness which threatened to distract her heart; and
for that reason--namely, that she possessed the courage--she
succeeded.
"Nevertheless it did not escape the Chevalier's
acute perception that something had happened to powerfully affect
Angela; but he possessed sufficient delicacy of feeling not to seek
for a solution of the mystery, which it was evident she desired to
conceal from him. He contented himself with depriving any dangerous
rival of his power by expediting the marriage; and he made all
arrangements for its celebration with such fine tact, and such a
sympathetic appreciation of his fair bride's situation and
sentiments, that she saw in them a new proof of the good and amiable
qualities of her husband.
"The Chevalier's behaviour towards Angela showed
him attentive to her slightest wish, and exhibited that sincere
esteem which springs from the purest affection; hence her memory of
Duvernet soon vanished entirely from her mind. The first cloud that
dimmed the bright heaven of her happiness was the illness and death
of old Vertua.
"Since the night when he had lost all his fortune
at the Chevalier's bank he had never touched a card, but during the
last moments of his life play seemed to have taken complete
possession of his soul. Whilst the priest who had come to administer
to him the consolation of the Church ere he died, was speaking to
him of heavenly things, he lay with his eyes closed, murmuring
between his teeth, 'perd,
gagne,' whilst his trembling half-dead
hands went through the motions of dealing through a
taille, of drawing the cards. Both Angela
and the Chevalier bent over him and spoke to him in the tenderest
manner, but it was of no use; he no longer seemed to know them, nor
even to be aware of their presence. With a deep-drawn sigh 'gagne,'
he breathed his last.
"In the midst of her distressing grief Angela
could not get rid of an uncomfortable feeling of awe at the way in
which the old man had died. She again saw in vivid shape the picture
of that terrible night when she had first seen the Chevalier as a
most hardened and reprobate gambler; and the fearful thought entered
her mind that he might again, in scornful mockery of her, cast aside
his mask of goodness and appear in his original fiendish character,
and begin to pursue his old course of life once more.
"And only too soon was Angela's dreaded foreboding
to become reality. However great the awe which fell upon the
Chevalier at old Francesco Vertua's death-scene, when the old man,
despising the consolation of the Church, though in the last agonies
of death, had not been able to turn his thoughts from his former
sinful life--however great was the awe that then fell upon the
Chevalier, yet his mind was thereby led, though how he could not
explain, to dwell more keenly upon play than ever before, so that
every night in his dreams he sat at the faro-bank and heaped up
riches anew.
"In proportion as Angela's behaviour became more
constrained, in consequence of her recollection of the character in
which she had first seen the Chevalier, and as it became more and
more impossible for her to continue to meet him upon the old
affectionate, confidential footing upon which they had hitherto
lived, so exactly in the same degree distrust of Angela crept into
the Chevalier's mind, since he ascribed her constraint to the secret
which had once disturbed her peace of mind and which had not been
revealed to him. From this distrust were born displeasure and
unpleasantness, and these he expressed in various ways which hurt
Angela's feelings. By a singular cross-action of spiritual influence
Angela's recollections of the unhappy Duvemet began to recur to her
mind with fresher force, and along with these the intolerable
consciousness of her ruined love,--the loveliest blossom that had
budded in her youthful heart. The strained relations between the
pair continued to increase until things got to such a pitch that the
Chevalier grew disgusted with his simple mode of life, thought it
dull, and was smitten with a powerful longing to enjoy the life of
the world again. His star of ill omen began to acquire the
ascendancy. The change which had been inaugurated by displeasure and
great unpleasantness was completed by an abandoned wretch who had
formerly been croupier in the Chevalier's faro-bank. He succeeded by
means of the most artful insinuations and conversations in making
the Chevalier look upon his present walk of life as childish and
ridiculous. The Chevalier could not understand at last how, for a
woman's sake, he ever came to leave a world which appeared to him to
contain all that made life of any worth.
"It was not long ere Chevalier Menars' rich bank
was flourishing more magnificently than ever. His good-luck had not
left him; victim after victim came and fell; he amassed heaps of
riches. But Angela's happiness--it was ruined--ruined in fearful
fashion; it was to be compared to a short fair dream. The Chevalier
treated her with indifference, nay even with contempt. Often, for
weeks and months together, she never saw him once; the household
arrangements were placed in the hands of a steward; the servants
were being constantly changed to suit the Chevalier's whims; so that
Angela, a stranger in her own house, knew not where to turn for
comfort. Often during her sleepless nights the Chevalier's carriage
stopped before the door, the heavy strong-box was carried upstairs,
the Chevalier flung out a few harsh monosyllabic words of command,
and then the doors of his distant room were sent to with a bang--all
this she heard, and a flood of bitter tears started from her eyes.
In a state of the most heart- rending anguish she called upon
Duvernet time after time, and implored Providence to put an end to
her miserable life of trouble and suffering.
"One day a young man of good family, after losing
all his fortune at the Chevalier s bank, sent a bullet through his
brain in the gambling- house, and in the very same room even in
which the bank was established, so that the players were sprinkled
by the blood and scattered brains, and started up aghast. The
Chevalier alone preserved his indifference; and, as all were
preparing to leave the apartment, he asked whether it was in
accordance with their rules and custom to leave the bank before the
appointed hour on account of a fool who had had no conduct in his
play.
"The occurrence created a great sensation. The
most experienced and hardened gamblers were indignant at the
Chevalier's unexampled behaviour. The voice of the public was raised
against him. The bank was closed by the police. He was, moreover,
accused of false play; and his unprecedented good-luck tended to
establish the truth of the charge. He was unable to clear himself.
The fine he was compelled to pay deprived him of a considerable part
of his riches. He found himself disgraced and looked upon with
contempt; then he went back to the arms of the wife he had ill-used,
and she willingly received him, the penitent, since the remembrance
of how her own father had turned aside from the demoralising life of
a gambler allowed a glimmer of hope to rise, that the Chevalier's
conversion might this time, now that he was older, really have some
stamina in it.
"The Chevalier left Paris along with his wife, and
went to Genoa, Angela's birthplace. Here he led a very retired life
at first. But all endeavours to restore the footing of quiet
domesticity with Angela, which his evil genius had destroyed, were
in vain. It was not long before his deep-rooted discontent awoke
anew and drove him out of the house in a state of uneasy, unsettled
restlessness. His evil reputation had followed him from Paris to
Genoa; he dare not venture to establish a bank, although he was
being goaded to do so by a power he could hardly resist.
"At that time the richest bank in Genoa was kept
by a French colonel, who had been invalided owing to serious wounds.
His heart burning with envy and fierce hatred, the Chevalier
appeared at the Colonel's table, expecting that his usual good
fortune would stand by him, and that he should soon ruin his rival.
The Colonel greeted him in a merry humour, such as was in general
not customary with him, and said that now the play would really be
worth indulging in since they had got Chevalier Menars and his
good-luck to join them, for now would come the struggle which alone
made the game interesting.
"And in fact during the first
taille the cards fell favourable to the
Chevalier as they always had done. But when, relying upon his
invincible luck, he at last cried 'Va banquet,'6
he lost a very considerable sum at one stroke.
"The Colonel, at other times preserving the same
even temperament whether winning or losing, now swept the money
towards him with the most demonstrative signs of extreme delight.
From this moment fortune turned away from the Chevalier utterly and
completely. He played every night, and every night he lost, until
his property had melted away to a few thousand ducats,7
which he still had in securities.
"The Chevalier had spent the whole day in running
about to get his securities converted into ready money, and did not
reach home until late in the evening. So soon as it was fully night,
he was about to leave the house with his last gold pieces in his
pocket, when Angela, who suspected pretty much how matters stood,
stepped in his path and threw herself at his feet, whilst a flood of
tears gushed from her eyes, beseeching him by the Virgin and all the
saints to abandon his wicked purpose, and not to plunge her in want
and misery.
"He raised her up and strained her to his heart
with painful passionate intensity, saying in a hoarse voice,
'Angela, my dear sweet Angela! It can't be helped now, indeed it
must be so; I must go on with it, for I can't let it alone. But
to-morrow--to-morrow all your troubles shall be over, for by the
Eternal Destiny that rules over us I swear that to-day shall be the
last time I will play. Quiet yourself, my dear good child--go and
sleep--dream of happy days to come, of a better life that is in
store for you; that will bring good-luck. Herewith he kissed his
wife and hurried off before she could stop him.
"Two tailles, and the
Chevalier had lost all--all. He stood beside the Colonel, staring
upon the faro-table in moody senselessness.
"'Are you not punting any more, Chevalier?' said
the Colonel, shuffling the cards for a new
taille, 'I have lost all,' replied the Chevalier, forcing
himself with an effort to be calm.
"'Have you really nothing left?' asked the Colonel
at the next taille.
"'I am a beggar,' cried the Chevalier, his voice
trembling with rage and mortification; and he continued to stare
fiercely upon the table without observing that the players were
gaining more and more advantages over the banker.
"The Colonel went on playing quietly. But whilst
shuffling the cards for the following
taille,
he said in a low voice, without looking at the Chevalier, 'But you
have a beautiful wife.'
"'What do you mean by that?' burst out the
Chevalier angrily. The Colonel drew his cards without making any
answer.
"'Ten thousand ducats or--Angela!' said the
Colonel, half turning round whilst the cards were being cut.
"'You are mad!' exclaimed the Chevalier, who now
began to observe on coming more to himself that the Colonel
continually lost and lost again.
"'Twenty thousand ducats against Angela!' said the
Colonel in a low voice, pausing for a moment in his shuffling of the
cards.
"The Chevalier did not reply. The Colonel went on
playing, and almost all the cards fell to the players' side.
"'Taken!' whispered the Chevalier in the Colonel's
ear, as the new taille began, and he
pushed the queen on the table.
"In the next draw the queen had lost. The
Chevalier drew back from the table, grinding his teeth, and in
despair stood leaning in a window, his face deathly pale.
"Play was over. 'Well, and what's to be done now?'
were the Colonel's mocking words as he stepped up to the Chevalier.
"'Ah!' cried the Chevalier, quite beside himself,
'you have made me a beggar, but you must be insane to imagine that
you could win my wife. Are we on the islands? is my wife a slave,
exposed as a mere thing to the brutal
arbitrariness of a reprobate man, that he may trade with her, gamble
with her? But it is true! You would have had to pay twenty thousand
ducats if the queen had won, and so I have lost all right to raise a
protest if my wife is willing to leave me to follow you. Come along
with me, and despair when you see how my wife will repel you with
detestation when you propose to her that she shall follow you as
your shameless mistress.'
"'You will be the one to despair,' replied the
Colonel, with a mocking, scornful laugh; 'you will be the one to
despair, Chevalier, when Angela turns with abhorrence from you--you,
the abandoned sinner, who have made her life miserable--and flies
into my arms in rapture and delight; you will be the one to despair
when you learn that we have been united by the blessing of the
Church, and that our dearest wishes are crowned with happiness. You
call me insane. Ho! ho! All I wanted to win was the right to claim
her, for of Angela herself I am sure. Ho! ho! Chevalier, let me
inform you that your wife loves me--me,
with unspeakable love: let me inform you that I am that Duvernet,
the neighbour's son, who was brought up along with Angela, bound to
her by ties of the most ardent affection--he whom you drove away by
means of your diabolical devices. Ah! it was not until I had to go
away to the wars that Angela became conscious to herself of what I
was to her; I know all. It was too late. The Spirit of Evil
suggested to me the idea that I might ruin you in play, and so I
took to gambling--followed you to Genoa,--and now I have succeeded.
Away now to your wife.'
"The Chevalier was almost annihilated, like one
upon whose head had fallen the most disastrous blows of fortune. Now
he saw to the bottom of that mysterious secret, now he saw for the
first time the full extent of the misfortune which he had brought
upon poor Angela. 'Angela, my wife, shall decide,' he said hoarsely,
and followed the Colonel, who was hurrying off at full speed.
"On reaching the house the Colonel laid his hand
upon the latch of Angela's chamber; but the Chevalier pushed him
back, saying, 'My wife is asleep. Do you want to rouse her up out of
her sweet sleep?'
"'Hm!' replied the Colonel. 'Has Angela ever
enjoyed sweet sleep since you brought all this nameless misery upon
her?' Again the Colonel attempted to enter the chamber; but the
Chevalier threw himself at his feet and screamed, frantic with
despair, 'Be merciful. Let me keep my wife; you have made me a
beggar, but let me keep my wife.'
"'That's how old Vertua lay at your feet, you
miscreant dead to all feeling, and could not move your stony heart;
may Heaven's vengeance overtake you for it.' Thus spoke the Colonel;
and he again strode towards Angela's chamber.
"The Chevalier sprang towards the door, tore it
open, rushed to the bed in which his wife lay, and drew back the
curtains, crying, 'Angela! Angela!' Bending over her, he grasped her
hand; but all at once he shook and trembled in mortal anguish and
cried in a thundering voice, 'Look! look! you have won my wife's
corpse.'
"Perfectly horrified, the Colonel approached the
bed; no sign of life!--Angela was dead--dead.
"Then the Colonel doubled his fist and shook it
heavenwards, and rushed out of the room uttering a fearful cry.
Nothing more was ever heard of him."
This was the end of the stranger's tale; and the
Baron was so shaken that before he could say anything the stranger
had hastily risen from the seat and gone away.
A few days later the stranger was found in his
room suffering from apoplexy of the nerves. He never opened his
mouth up to the moment of his death, which ensued after the lapse of
a few hours. His papers proved that, though he called himself
Baudasson simply, he was no less a person than the unhappy Chevalier
Menars himself.
The Baron recognised it as a warning from Heaven,
that Chevalier Menars had been led across his path to save him just
as he was approaching the brink of the precipice; he vowed that he
would withstand all the seductions of the gambler's deceptive luck.
Up till now he has faithfully kept his word.
FOOTNOTES TO "GAMBLER'S LUCK":
Footnote
1 In faro
the keeper of the bank plays against all the rest of the players
(who are called punters). He has a full
pack; they have but a single complete suit. The punters may stake
what they please upon any card they please, except in so far as
rules may have been made to the contrary by the banker. After the
cards have been cut, the banker proceeds to take off the two top
cards one after the other, placing the first at his right hand, and
the second at his left, each with the face uppermost. Any punter who
has staked a card which bears exactly the same number of "peeps" as
the card turned up on the banker's right hand loses the stake to the
latter; but if it bears the same number of "peeps" as the card on
the banker's left, it is the banker who has to pay the punter a sum
equal to the value of his stake. The twenty-six drawings which a
full pack allows the banker to make are called a
taille.
This general sketch will help to make the text
intelligible for the most part without going into minor
technicalities of the game.]
Footnote
2 The
words "win," "lose," with which the banker places the two cards on
the table, the first to his right for himself, the second on his
left for the punter.]
Footnote
3 The new
Louis d'or were worth somewhat less than
the old coins of the time of Louis XIV. and Louis XV. (See
note, page 175.)]
Footnote
4 The
banker's assistants, who shuffle cards for him, change cheques,
notes, and make themselves generally useful.]
Footnote
5
Malmaison is a chateau and park situated about six miles W. of
Paris. It once belonged to Richelieu; and there the Empress
Josephine lived, and there she died on the 13th May, 1814.]
Footnote
6 "Va
bout" or "Va banque" meant a challenge
to the bank to the full amount of the highest limit of play, and if
the punter won he virtually broke the bank.]
Footnote
7 The
first silver ducat is believed to have been struck in 1140 by Roger
II., Norman king of Sicily; and ducats have been struck constantly
since the twelfth century, especially at Venice (see
Merchant of Venice). They have varied
considerably both in weight and fineness, and consequently in value,
at different times and places. Ducats have been struck in both gold
and silver. The early Venetian silver ducat was worth about five
shillings. The name is said, according to one account, to have been
derived from the last word of the Latin legend found on the earliest
Venetian gold coins:--_Sit tibi, Christe, datus, quem tu regis,
ducatus_ (duchy); according to another account it is taken from "il
ducato," the name generally applied to the duchy of Apulia.
(Note, page 98, Vol. I.)]
Pin-Up Weird Tales
At the time when people in the beautiful and pleasant
town of Bamberg lived, according to the well-known saying, well,
i.e., under the crook, namely in the end
of the previous century, there was also one inhabitant, a man
belonging to the burgher class, who might be called in every respect
both singular and eminent His name was Johannes Wacht, and his trade
was that of a carpenter.
Nature, in weighing and definitely determining her
children's destinies, pursues her own dark inscrutable path; and all
that is claimed by convenience, and by the opinions and
considerations which prevail in man's narrow existence, as
determining factors in settling the true tendency of every man's
self. Nature regards as nothing more than the pert play of deluded
children imagining themselves to be wise. But short-sighted man
often finds an insuperable irony in the contradiction between the
conviction of his own mind and the mysterious ordering of this
inscrutable Power, who first nourished and fed him at her maternal
bosom and then deserted him; and this irony fills him with terror
and awe, since it threatens to annihilate his own self.
The mother of Life does not choose for her
favourites either the palaces of the great or the state-apartments
of princes. And so she made our Johannes, who, as the kindly reader
will soon learn, might be called one of her most richly endowed
favourites, first see the light of the world on a wretched heap of
straw, in the workshop of an impoverished master turner in Augsburg.
His mother died of want and from suffering soon after the child's
birth, and his father followed her after the lapse of a few months.
The town government had to take charge of the
helpless boy; and when the Council's master carpenter, a well-to-do,
respectable man, who found in the child's face, notwithstanding that
it was pinched with hunger, certain traits which pleased him,--when
he would not suffer the boy to be lodged in a public institution,
but took him into his own house, in order to bring him up along with
his own children, then there dawned upon Johannes his first genial
ray of sunshine, heralding a happier lot in the future.
In an incredibly short space of time the boy's
frame developed, so that it was difficult to believe that the little
insignificant creature in the cradle had really been the shapeless
colourless chrysalis out of which this pretty, living, golden-locked
boy had proceeded, like a beautiful butterfly. But--what seemed of
more importance--along with this pleasing grace of physical form the
boy soon displayed such eminent intellectual faculties as astonished
both his foster-father and his teachers. Johannes grew up in a
workshop which sent forth some of the best and highest work that
mechanical skill was able to produce, since the master carpenter to
the Council was constantly engaged upon the most important
buildings. No wonder, therefore, that the child's mind, which caught
up everything with such keen clear perception, should be excited
thereby, and should feel all his heart drawn towards a trade the
deeper significance of which, in so far as it was concerned with the
material creation of great and bold ideas, he dimly felt deep down
in his soul. The joy that this bent of the orphan's mind occasioned
his foster-father may well be conceived; and hence he felt persuaded
to teach the boy all practical matters himself with great care and
attention, and furthermore, when he had grown into a youth, to have
him instructed by the cleverest masters in all the higher branches
of knowledge connected with the trade, both theoretical and
practical, such as, for instance, drawing, architecture, mechanics,
&c.
Our Johannes was four and twenty years of age when
the old master carpenter died; and even at that time his foster-son
was a thoroughly experienced and skilful journeyman in all branches
of his craft, whose equal could not be found far and near. At this
period Johannes set out, along with his true and faithful comrade
Engelbrecht, on the usual journeyman's2
travels.
Herewith you know, indulgent reader, all that it
is needful to know about the youth of our worthy Wacht; and it only
remains to tell you in a few words how it was that he came to settle
in Bamberg and how he became master there.
After being on the travel for a pretty long time
he happened to arrive at Bamberg on his way home along with his
comrade Engelbrecht; and there they found the Bishop's palace
undergoing thorough repair, and particularly on that side of it
where the walls rose up to a great height out of a very narrow alley
or court. Here an entirely new roof was to be put up, of very great
and very heavy beams; and they wanted a machine, which, whilst
taking up the least possible room, would possess sufficient
concentration of power to raise the heavy weights up to the required
height. The Prince-bishop's builder, who knew how to calculate to a
nicety how Trajan's Column in Rome had been made to stand, and also
knew the hundred or more mistakes that had been made which he should
never have laid himself open to the reproach of committing, had
indeed constructed a machine--a sort of crane--which was very nice
to look at, and was praised by everybody as a masterpiece of
mechanical skill; but when the men tried to set the thing agoing, it
turned out that the Herr builder had calculated upon downright
Samsons and Herculeses. The wheels creaked and squeaked horribly;
the huge beams which were hooked on to the crane did not budge an
inch; the men declared, whilst shaking the sweat from their brows,
that they would much sooner carry ships' mainmasts up steep stairs
than strain themselves in this way, and waste all their best
strength in vain over such a machine; and there matters remained.
Standing at some distance, Wacht and Engelbrecht
looked on at what they were doing, or rather, not doing; and it is
possible that Wacht may have smiled just a little at the builder's
want of knowledge.
A grey-headed old foreman, recognising the
strangers' handicraft from their clothing, stepped up to them
without more ado, and asked Wacht if he understood how to manage the
machine any better since he looked so cunning about it. "Ah, well!"
replied Wacht, without being in the least disconcerted, "ah well;
it's a doubtful point whether I know better, for every fool thinks
he understands everything better than anybody else; but I can't help
wondering that in this part of the country you don't seem to be
acquainted with a certain simple contrivance, which would easily
perform all that the Herr Builder yonder is vainly tormenting his
men to accomplish."
The young man's bold answer nettled the
grey-haired old foreman not a little; he turned away muttering to
himself; and very soon it was known to them all that a young
stranger, a carpenter's journeyman, had laughed the builder together
with his machine to scorn, and boasted that he was acquainted with a
more serviceable contrivance. As is usually the case, nobody paid
any heed to it; but the worthy builder as well as the honourable
guild of carpenters in Bamberg were of opinion that the stranger had
not, it was to be presumed, devoured up all the wisdom of the world,
nor would he presume to dictate to and teach old and experienced
masters. "Now do you see, Johannes," said Engelbrecht to his
comrade, "now do you see how your rash boldness has again provoked
against you the people whom we must meet as comrades of the craft?"
"Who can, who may look on quietly," replied
Johannes, whilst his eyes flashed, "when the poor labourers--I'm
sure they're to be pitied--are tormented so and made to work beyond
all reason, and that all to no purpose. And who knows whether my
rash boldness may not, after all, have beneficial consequences?" And
it really turned out to be so.
One single individual, of such pre-eminent
intellectual capacity that no gleam of knowledge, however fugitive
it might be, ever escaped his keen penetration, attached a quite
different importance to the youth's words from what the rest did,
for the builder had reported them to him as the presumptuous saying
of a young fledgling carpenter. This man was the Prince-bishop
himself. He had the young man summoned to his presence, that he
might inquire further into the import of his words, and was not a
little astonished both at his appearance and at his general bearing
and character. My kindly reader ought to know what this astonishment
was due to, and now is the time to tell him something more about
Johannes Wacht's exterior and Johannes Wacht's mind and thoughts.
As far as his face and figure were concerned, he
might justly be called a remarkably handsome young fellow, and yet
his noble features and majestic stature did not attain to full
perfection until after he had reached a riper manhood. Æsthetic
canons of the cathedral credited Johannes with having the head of an
old Roman; a younger member of the same fraternity, who even in the
severest winter was in the habit of going about dressed in black
silk, and who had read Schiller's Fiesko,
maintained, on the contrary, that Johannes Wacht was Verrina3
in the flesh.
But the mysterious charm by means of which many
highly-gifted men are enabled to win at once the confidence of those
whom they approach does not consist in beauty and grace of external
form alone. We in a certain sense feel their superiority; yet this
feeling is by no means an oppressive feeling as might be imagined;
but, whilst elevating the spirit, it also excites a certain kind of
mental comfort that does us an incalculable amount of good. All the
factors of the physical and intellectual organism are united into a
whole by the most perfect harmony, so that the contact with the
superior soul is like a pure strain of music; it suffers no discord.
This harmony creates that inimitable deportment, that--one might
almost say--comfort in the slightest movements, through which the
consciousness of true human dignity is proclaimed. This deportment
can be taught by no dancing- master, by no Prince's tutor; and well
and rightly does it deserve its proper name of the distinguished
deportment, since it is stamped as such by Nature herself. Here need
only be added that Master Wacht, unflinchingly constant in
generosity, truth, and faithfulness to his burgher standing, became
as the years went on ever more a man of the people. He developed all
the virtues, but at the same time all the unconquerable prejudices,
which are generally wont to form the unfavourable sides of such
men's characters. My kindly reader will soon learn of what these
prejudices consisted.
I have now perhaps sufficiently explained why it
was that the young man's appearance made such an uncommon impression
upon the respected Prince-bishop. For a long time he observed the
stalwart young workman in silence, but with visible satisfaction;
then he questioned him about his previous life. Johannes answered
all his questions candidly and modestly, and finally explained to
the Prince with convincing clearness, that the master-builder's
machine, though perhaps fitted for other purposes, would in the
present case never effect what it was intended to do.
In reply to the Prince's inquiry whether he could
indeed trust himself to specify a machine that would be more
suitable for the purpose, namely, to raise the heavy weights, the
young man replied that all he required to construct such a machine
was a single day, and the help of his comrade Engelbrecht and a few
skilful and willing labourers.
It may be conceived with what malicious and
mischievous inward joy, and with what impatience the master-builder,
and all who were connected with him, looked forward to the morrow,
when the forward stranger would be sent off home covered with shame
and ridicule. But things turned out different from what these
good-hearted people had expected, or indeed had wished.
Three capsterns suitably situated and so arranged
as to exert an effect one upon another, and each only manned by
eight labourers, elevated the heavy beams up to the giddy level of
the roof with so much ease that they appeared to dance in the air.
From this moment the brave clever craftsman could date the
foundation of his reputation in Bamberg. The Prince urged him
seriously to stay in that town and secure his mastership; towards
the attainment of this end he would lend him all the assistance he
possibly could. Wacht, however, hesitated, notwithstanding that he
was very well pleased with the pleasant and cheap town of Bamberg.
The fact that several important buildings were just then in course
of erection put a heavy weight into the scale for staying; but the
final turn to the balance was given by a circumstance which is very
often wont to decide matters in life; namely, Johannes Wacht found
again quite unexpectedly in Bamberg the beautiful virtuous maiden
whom he had seen several years previously in Erlangen, and into
whose friendly blue eyes he had then peeped a little too much. In a
few words, Johannes Wacht became master, married the virtuous maiden
of Erlangen, and soon contrived through industry and skill to
purchase a pretty house on the Kaulberg,4
which had a large tract of garden ground stretching away back up the
hill, and there he settled down for life.
But upon whom does the friendly star of good
fortune shine unchangeably with the same degree of splendour at all
times? Providence had decreed that our honest Johannes should be
submitted to a trial under which perhaps any other man, with less
firmness of spirit, would have sunk. The first fruit of this very
happy marriage was a son, an excellent youth, who appeared to be
walking steadfastly in his father's footsteps. He was eighteen years
of age when one night a large fire broke out not far from Wacht's
house. Father and son hurried to the spot, agreeably to their
calling, to help in extinguishing the flames. Along with other
carpenters the son boldly clambered up to the roof in order to cut
away its burning framework, as far as could be done. His father, who
had remained below, as he always did, to direct the demolition of
walls, &c., and to superintend the work of extinction, looked up and
seeing the imminent danger shouted, "Johannes! men! come down! come
down!" Too late--with a fearful crash the wall fell in; the son lay
struck to death in the flames, which leapt up crackling louder as if
in horrid triumph.
But this terrible blow was not the only one which
was to fall upon poor Johannes. An inconsiderate maid-servant burst
with a frantic cry of distress into her mistress' room, who was only
partly convalescent from a distracting nervous disorder, and was in
great uneasiness and anxiety about the fire, the dark-red reflection
of which was flickering on the walls of her chamber. "Your son, your
Johannes, is killed; the wall has buried him and his comrades in the
middle of the flames," screamed the girl. As though stung with
sharp, sudden pain, her mistress raised herself up in the bed; but
breathing out a deep sigh, she sank back upon the cushions again.
She was struck with paralysis of the nerves; she was dead.
"Now let us see," said the citizens, "how Master
Wacht will bear his great trouble. He has often enough preached to
us that a man ought not to succumb to the greatest misfortune, but
ought to bear his head erect and strive with the strength which the
Creator has planted in every man's breast to withstand the misery
that threatens him, so long as the contrary is not evidently decreed
in the Eternal counsels. Let us see now what sort of an example he
will give us."
They were not a little astonished when, although
the master himself was not seen in the workshop, yet his
journeymen's activity continued without interruption, so that work
never stood still for a single moment, but went on just as if the
master had not experienced any trouble.
With steadfast courage and firm step, and with his
face shining with all the consolation and all the hope that sprang
from his belief--the true religion rooted deep down in his
breast--he had followed the corpses of his wife and son; and on the
noon of the same day after the funeral, which had taken place in the
morning, he said to Engelbrecht, "Engelbrecht, it is now necessary
for me to be alone with my grief, which is almost breaking my heart,
in order that I may become acquainted with it and strengthen myself
against it. You, brother, my honest, industrious foreman, will know
what to do for a week; for that space I am going to shut myself up
in my own chamber."
And indeed for a whole week Master Wacht never
left his room. The maid frequently brought down his food again
untouched; and they often heard in the passage his low, sad cry,
cutting them to the quick, "O my wife! O my Johannes!"
Many of Wacht's acquaintances were of opinion that
he ought not by any means to be left in this solitary state; by
brooding constantly over his grief his mind might become unsettled
Engelbrecht, however, met them with the reply, "Let him alone; you
don't know my Johannes. Since Providence, in its inscrutable
purposes, has sent him this hard trial, it has also given him
strength to overcome it, and all earthly consolation would only
outrage his feelings. I know in what manner he is working his way
out of his deep grief." These last words Engelbrecht uttered with a
well-nigh cunning look upon his face; but he would not give any
further information as to what he meant. Wacht's acquaintances had
to content themselves, and leave the unfortunate man in peace.
A week was passed, and early the next morning,
which was a bright summer morning, at five o'clock Master Wacht came
out unexpectedly into the workyard amongst his journeymen, who were
all hard at work. Their axes and saws stopped, whilst they greeted
him with a half-sorrowful cry, "Master Wacht! Our good Master
Wacht!"
With a cheerful face, upon which the traces of the
struggle against grief which he had gone through had deepened the
expression of sterling good-nature and given it a most touching
character, he stepped amongst his faithful workpeople and told them
how the goodness of Heaven had sent down the spirit of mercy and
consolation upon him, and that he was now filled with strength and
courage to go on and discharge the duties of his calling. He betook
himself to the building in the middle of the yard, which served for
the storage of the tools at night, and for keeping the plans and
memoranda of work, &c. Englebrecht, the journeymen, the apprentices,
followed him in a string. On entering, Johannes stood rooted to the
spot.
His poor boy's axe, which was identified by
certain distinctive marks, had been found with half-charred handle
under the ruins of the house that had been burnt down. His
companions had fastened it high up on the wall directly opposite the
door, and, in a rather rude attempt at art, had painted round it a
wreath of roses and cypress-branches; and underneath the wreath they
had placed their beloved comrade's name, together with the year of
his birth and the date of the ill-omened night when he had met such
a violent death.
"Poor Hans!"5
exclaimed Master Wacht on perceiving this touching monument of the
true faithful spirits, whilst a flood of tears gushed from his eyes.
"Poor Hans! the last time you wielded that tool was for the welfare
of your brothers; but now you are resting in your grave, and will
never more stand by my side and use your earnest industry in helping
to forward a good piece of work."
Then Master Wacht went round the circle and gave
each journeyman and each apprentice a good honest shake of the hand,
saying, "Think of him." Then they all went back to their work,
except Engelbrecht, whom Wacht bid stay with him.
"See here, my old comrade," cried Wacht, "what
extraordinary means the Eternal Power has chosen to help me to
overcome my great trouble. During the days when I was almost
heart-broken with grief for my wife and child, whom I have lost in
such a terrible way, there came into my mind the idea of a highly
artistic and complicated trussed girder, which I had been thinking
about for a long time without ever being able to see my way to the
thing clearly. Look here."
Therewith Master Wacht unrolled the drawing at
which he had worked during the past week, and Engelbrecht was
greatly astonished at the boldness and originality of the invention
no less than at its exceptional neatness in the finished state. The
mechanical part of the contrivance was so skilfully and cleverly
arranged that even Engelbrecht, with all his great experience, could
not comprehend it at once; but the greater therefore was his glad
admiration when Master Wacht explained to him the whole construction
down to the minutest details, and he had convinced himself that the
putting of the plan into execution could not fail to be successful.
At this time Wacht's household consisted of only
two daughters besides himself; but it was very soon to be increased.
Albeit a clever and industrious workman, Master
Engelbrecht had never been able to advance so far as that lowest
grade of affluence which had been the reward of Wacht's very
earliest undertakings. He had to contend with the worst enemy of
life, against which no human power is of any avail; it not only
threatened to destroy him, but really did destroy him--namely,
consumption. He died, leaving a wife and two boys almost in want.
His wife went back to her own home; and Master Wacht would willingly
have taken both boys into his own house, but this could only be
arranged in the case of the elder, who was called Sebastian. He was
a strong intelligent lad, and having an inclination to follow his
father's trade, promised to make a good clever carpenter. He had,
however, a certain refractoriness of disposition, which at times
seemed to border closely upon badness, as well as being somewhat
rude in his manners, and even often wild and untamable; but these
ill qualities Wacht hoped to conquer by wise training. The younger
boy, Jonathan by name, was exactly the opposite of his elder
brother; he was a very pretty little boy, but rather fragile, his
blue eyes laughing with gentleness and kind-heartedness. This boy
had been adopted during his father's lifetime by Herr Theophilus
Eichheimer, a worthy doctor of law, as well as the first and oldest
advocate in the place. Noticing the boy's remarkably good parts, as
well as his most decided bent for knowledge, he had taken him to
train him for a lawyer.
And here one of those unconquerable prejudices of
our Wacht came to light which have been already spoken of above,
namely, he was perfectly convinced in his own mind that everything
understood under the name of law was nothing else but so many
phrases artificially hammered out and put together by lawyers, with
the sole purpose of perplexing the true feeling of right which had
been planted in every virtuous man's breast. Since he could not
exactly shut his eyes to the necessity for law- courts, he
discharged all his hatred upon the advocates, whom as a class he
conceived to be, if not altogether miserable deceivers, yet at any
rate such contemptible men that they practised usury in shameful
fashion with all that was most holy and venerable in the world. It
will be seen presently how Wacht, who in all other relations of life
was an intelligent and clear-sighted man, resembled in this
particular the coarsest-minded amongst the lowest of the people. The
further prejudice that he would not admit there was any piety or
virtue amongst the adherents of the Roman Catholic Church, and that
he trusted no Catholic, might perhaps be pardoned him, since he had
imbibed the principles of a well-nigh fanatical Protestantism in
Augsburg. It may be conceived, therefore, how it cut Master Wacht to
the heart to see the son of his most faithful friend entering upon a
career that he so bitterly detested.
The will of the deceased, however, was in his eyes
sacred; and it was, moreover, at any rate certain that Jonathan with
his weakly body could not be trained up to any handicraft that made
any very large demand upon physical strength. Besides, when old Herr
Theophilus Eichheimer talked to the master about the divine gift of
knowledge, at the same time praising little Jonathan as a good
intelligent boy, Wacht for the moment forgot the advocate, and law,
and his own prejudice as well. He fastened all his hopes upon the
belief that Jonathan, who bore his father's virtues in his heart,
would give up his profession when he arrived at riper years, and was
able to perceive all the disgrace that attached to it.
Though Jonathan was a good, quiet boy, fond of
studying in-doors, Sebastian was all the oftener and all the deeper
engaged in all kinds of wild foolish pranks. But since in respect to
his handiwork he followed in his father's footsteps, and no fault
could ever be found with his industry or with the neatness of his
work, Master Wacht ascribed his at times too outrageous tricks to
the unrefined untamed fire of youth, and he forgave the young
fellow, observing that he would be sure to sow his wild oats when on
his travels.
These travels Sebastian soon set out upon; and
Master Wacht heard nothing more from him until Sebastian, on
attaining his majority, wrote from Vienna, begging for his little
patrimonial inheritance, which Master Wacht sent to him correct to
the last farthing, receiving in return a receipt for it drawn up by
one of the Vienna courts.
Just the same sort of difference in character as
distinguished the Engelbrechts was noticeable also between Wacht's
two daughters, of whom the elder was called Rettel6
and the younger Nanni.
It may here be hastily remarked in passing, that,
according to the taste generally prevalent in Bamberg, the Christian
name Nanni is the prettiest and finest a girl can well have. And so,
kindly reader, if you ever ask a pretty child in Bamberg, "What is
your name, my little angel?" the little thing will be sure to cast
down her eyes in shy confusion and tug at her black silk apron, and
whisper in friendly fashion with a slight blush upon her cheeks,
"'N! 'N! Nanni, y'r honour."
Rettel, Wacht's elder daughter, was a fat little
thing, with red rosy cheeks and right friendly black eyes, with
which she looked boldly into the face of the sunshine of life, as it
had dawned upon her, without blinking. In respect of her education
and her character she had not risen a hair's breadth above the
sphere of the handicraftsman. She gossiped with her female relatives
and friends, and liked dressing herself, though in gay colours and
without taste; but her own peculiar element, wherein she "lived and
moved, and had her being," was the kitchen. Nobody's hare-ragout and
geese giblets, not even those of the most experienced cook far and
near, ever turned out so tasty as hers; in the preparation of sauces
she was a perfect adept; vegetables, such as savoy and cauliflower,
were dressed by Rettel's cunning hand in a way that could not be
beaten, since she knew in a moment through a subtle unfailing
instinct when there was too much or too little dripping; and her
short cakes put in the shade the most successful productions of a
similar kind at the most sumptuous of church feasts.7
Father Wacht was very well satisfied with his
daughter's cooking; and he once hazarded the opinion that the
Prince-bishop could not have more delicious vermicelli noodles8
on his table than those which Rettel made. This remark sank so
deeply into the good girl's pleased heart, that she was preparing to
send a huge dish of the said vermicelli noodles up to the
Prince-bishop, and that too on a fast day. Fortunately Master Wacht
got scent of the plan in time, and amidst hearty laughter prevented
the bold idea from being put into execution.
Not only was stout little Rettel a clever
housekeeper, a perfect cook, and at the same time a pattern of good
nature and childish affection and fidelity, but like a well-trained
child she also loved her father very tenderly.
Now characters of Wacht's class, in spite of their
earnestness, often display a certain ironical waggishness which
comes into play on easy provocation, and lends an agreeable charm to
life, just as the deep brook greets with its silver curling waves
the light breeze that skims its surface.
It could not fail but that good Rettel's ways and
doings frequently provoked this sly humour; and so the relations
between Wacht and his daughter were invested with a curiously
modified charm of colour. The indulgent reader will come across
instances later on; for the present it may suffice to mention one
such here, which certainly deserves to be called entertaining. In
Master Wacht's house there was a quiet, good-looking young man, who
held a post in the Prince's exchequer office and drew a very good
income. In straightforward German fashion he sued the father for the
hand of his elder daughter, and Master Wacht, if he would not do an
injustice to the young man as well as to his Rettel, could not help
but grant him permission to visit the house, that he might have
opportunities to try and win the girl's affections. Rettel, informed
of the man's purpose, received him with very friendly looks, in
which might be read at times, "At our wedding, dear, I shall bake
the cake myself."
Master Wacht, however, was not altogether well
pleased with his daughter's growing liking for the Herr
Administrator of the Prince's revenues, since the Herr Administrator
himself didn't seem to him to be all that he should be. In the first
place, the man was as a matter of course a Roman Catholic, and in
the second place Wacht thought he perceived in him on nearer
acquaintance a certain sneaking dissimulation of manner, which
pointed to a mind ill at ease. He would willingly have got the
undesirable suitor out of the house again if he could have done so
without hurting Rettel's feelings. Master Wacht observed him
closely, and knew how to make shrewd and cunning use of his
observations. He perceived that the Herr Administrator did not set
much store by well-cooked dishes, but swallowed down everything in
the same indiscriminate fashion, and that, moreover, in a
disagreeably repulsive way. One Sunday, when the Herr Administrator
was dining at Master Wacht's, as he usually did on that day, the
latter began to heap up praises and commendations upon every dish
which busy Rettel caused to be served up; and not only did he call
upon the Herr Administrator to join him in his encomiums, but he
also asked him pointedly what he thought of various ways of dressing
dishes. The Herr Administrator replied somewhat dryly that he was a
temperate and abstemious man, accustomed from his youth up to the
greatest frugality. At noon, for dinner, he was satisfied with a
spoonful or two of soup and a little piece of beef, but the latter
must be cooked hard, since so cooked a smaller quantity sufficed to
satisfy the hunger, and there was no need to overload the stomach
with large pieces. For his evening meal he generally managed upon a
saucer of good egg and butter beaten up together and a very small
glass of liquor; moreover, the only other refreshment he allowed
himself was a glass of extra beer at six o'clock in the evening,
taken if possible in the good fresh air. It may be imagined what
looks Rettelchen fixed upon the unfortunate administrator. And yet
the worst was still to come. Bavarian puffy noodles were next
served, and they were swollen up to such a big, big size that they
seemed to be the masterpiece of the table. The frugal Herr
Administrator took his knife and with the most cool-blooded
indifference cut the noodle which was passed to him into many
pieces. Rettel rushed out of the room with a loud cry of despair.
I must inform the reader who does not know the
secret of eating Bavarian puffy noodles that when eaten they must be
cleverly pulled to pieces, since when cut they lose all taste and
bring disgrace upon the professional pride of the cook who made
them.
From that moment Rettel looked upon the frugal
Herr Administrator as the most abominable man under the face of the
sun. Master Wacht did not contradict her in any way; and so the
reckless iconoclast in the province of cookery lost his bride for
ever.
Though the chequered figure of little Rettel has
cost almost too many words, yet a very few strokes will suffice to
put clearly before my reader's eyes the face, figure, and character
of pretty, graceful Nanni.
It is only in South Germany, particularly in
Franconia, and almost exclusively in the burgher classes, that you
can meet with such elegant and delicate figures, such good and
pleasing angelic little faces, where there is a sweet heavenly
yearning in the blue eyes and a divine smile upon the rosy lips, as
Nanni's; from them we at once see that the old painters had not far
to seek the originals of their Madonnas. Of exactly the same type in
figure, face, and character was the Erlangen maiden whom Master
Wacht had married; and Nanni was a most faithful copy of her mother.
With respect to her genuine tender womanliness and with respect to
that beneficial culture which is nothing but true tact under all
conditions of life, her mother was the exact counterpart of what
Master Wacht was with respect to his distinguishing qualities as
man. Perhaps the daughter was less serious and firm than her mother,
but on the other hand she was the perfection of maidenly sweetness;
and the only fault that could be found with her was that her womanly
tenderness of feeling and a sensitiveness which, as a consequence of
her weakened organisation, was easily provoked to a tearful and
unhealthy degree, made her too delicate and fragile for the
realities of life.
Master Wacht could not look at the dear child
without emotion, and he loved her in a way that is seldom found in
the case of strong characters like his. It is possible that he may
have always spoiled her a little; and it will soon be shown in what
way her tenderness so often received that special material and
encouragement which made it often degenerate into sickly
sentimentality.
Nanni loved to dress with extreme simplicity, but
in the finest stuffs and according to cuts which rose above the
limits of her station in life. Wacht, however, let her do as she
liked, since when dressed according to her own taste the dear child
looked so very pretty and engaging.
I must now hasten to destroy an idea which perhaps
might arise in the mind of any reader who should happen to have been
in Bamberg several years ago, and so would call to mind the hideous
and tasteless head- dress with which at that time even the prettiest
maidens were wont to disfigure their faces--the flat hood fitting
close to the head and not allowing the smallest little lock of hair
to be seen, a black and not over-broad ribbon crossing close over
the forehead, and meeting behind low down on the neck in an
outrageously ugly bow. This ribbon afterwards continued to increase
in width until it reached the preposterous breadth of nearly half an
ell; hence it had to be specially ordered in the manufactory and
strengthened inside with stiff card-board, so that it projected
above the head like a steeple-hat; just above the hollow of the neck
they wore a bow, which owing to its breadth stuck out far beyond the
shoulders, and resembled the outspread wings of an eagle; and along
the temples and about the ears tiny curls crept out from beneath the
hood. And strange to say, many a fine Bamberg beauty looked quite
charming in this head-covering.
It formed a very picturesque sight to stand behind
a funeral procession and watch it set itself in motion. It is the
custom in Bamberg for the burghers to be invited to attend the
funeral procession of a deceased person by the so-called
"death-woman," who in a croaking voice and in the name of the
deceased screams out her invitation in the street, in front of the
house of the persons she is inviting; as, for instance, "Herr
so-and-so, or Frau so-and-so, beg you to pay them the last honours."
The good gossips and the young maidens, who in general seldom get
out into the open air, fail not to put in an appearance in great
numbers; and when the troop of women sets itself in motion and the
wind catches the immense ends of the bows, it can be likened to
nothing else but a huge flock of black ravens or eagles suddenly
startled and just beginning their rustling flight.
The indulgent reader is therefore requested not to
picture pretty Nanni in any other head-dress except a neat little
Erlangen hood.
However objectionable it was to Master Wacht that
Jonathan was to belong to a class which he hated, he did not by any
means make the boy, or later the youth, feel the consequences of his
displeasure. Rather he was always very pleased to see the good quiet
Jonathan look in after his day's work was done, to spend the evening
with his daughters and old Barbara. But then Jonathan also wrote the
finest hand that could be seen anywhere; and it afforded Master
Wacht no little joy, for he was uncommonly fond of good handwriting,
when his Nanni, whose writing- master Jonathan had installed himself
to be, began gradually after a time to write the same elegant hand
as her master.
In the evening Master Wacht himself was either
busy in his own work- room, or, as was often the case, he visited a
beer-house, where he met with his fellow-craftsmen and the gentlemen
of the council, and in his way enlivened the company with his own
rare wit. Meanwhile in the house at home Barbara busily kept her
distaff on the whirl and whizz, whilst Rettel balanced the
house-keeping accounts, or thought out the preparation of new and
hitherto unheard-of dishes, or related again to the old woman,
mingled with a good deal of loud laughter, what she had learned in
confidence from her various gossips in the town.
And the youth Jonathan? He sat at the table with
Nanni; and she also wrote and drew, of course under his guidance.
And yet to sit writing and drawing the whole evening through is a
downright tiring piece of business; hence it was no unfrequent
occurrence for Jonathan to draw some neatly-bound book out of his
pocket and read it to pretty, sensitive Nanni in a low
softly-whispering tone.
Through old Eichheimer's influence Jonathan had
won the patronage of the minor canon, who designated Master Wacht a
real Verrina. The canon, Count von Kösel, a man of genius, lived and
revelled in Goethe's and Schiller's works, which were just at that
time beginning to rise like bright streaming meteors, overtopping
all others, above the horizon of the literary sky. He thought, and
rightly, that he discerned a similar tendency in his attorney's
young clerk, and took a special delight not only in lending him the
works in question, but in reading them in common with him, and so
helping him to thoroughly digest them.
But Jonathan won his way to the Count's heart in
an especial way, because he expressed a very favourable opinion of
the verses which the Count patched together out of high-sounding
phrases in the sweat of his own brow, and because he was, to the
Count's unspeakable satisfaction, edified and touched by them to the
proper pitch. Nevertheless it is a fact that Jonathan's taste in
æsthetic matters was really greatly improved by his intercourse with
the intellectual, though somewhat euphuistic, Count.
My kind reader now knows what class of books
Jonathan used to take out of his pocket and read to pretty Nanni,
and can form a just conception of the way in which this kind of
writings would inevitably excite a girl mentally organised as Nanni
was. "O star of the gloaming eve!" Would not Nanni's tears flow when
her attractive writing-master began in this low and solemn fashion?
It is a fact of common experience that young
people who are in the habit of singing tender love-duets together
very easily put themselves in the places of the fictitious
characters of the song, and come to look upon the duets in question
as giving both the melody and the text for the whole of life; so
also the youth who reads a love romance to a maiden very readily
becomes the hero of the story, whilst the girl dreams herself into
the role of the heroine. In the case of such fitly adapted spirits
as Jonathan and Nanni such incitement as this even was not required
to provoke them to love each other. They were one heart and one
soul; the maiden and the youth were, so to speak, but one brightly
burning flame of love, pure and inextinguishable. Of his daughter's
tender passion Father Wacht had not the slightest inkling; but he
was soon to learn all.
Through unwearied industry and genuine talent
Jonathan succeeded in a brief space of time in completing his legal
studies and qualifying for admission to the grade of advocate; and,
as a matter of fact, his admission soon followed. He intended one
Sunday to surprise Master Wacht with this glad news, which
established him upon a secure footing for life. But imagine how he
trembled with dismay when Wacht bent his eyes upon him, blazing with
anger; he had never seen him look so passionately wrathful. "What!"
cried Wacht, in a tone that made the walls ring again, "what! you
miserable good-for-nothing fellow! Nature has neglected your body,
but richly endowed you with splendid intellectual gifts, and these
you are intending to abuse in a shameless way, like a bad crafty
knave, and so putting your knife at your own mother's throat? You
mean to say you are going to traffic in justice as in some cheap
paltry ware in the public market, and weigh it out with false scales
to the poor peasants and the oppressed burgher, who in vain utter
their plaintive cries before the soft-cushioned seat of the
inexorable judge, and going to get yourself paid with blood-stained
pence which the poor man hands to you whilst bathed in tears? Will
you fill your brains with lying laws of man's contriving, and
practise knavish tricks and schemes, and make a lucrative business
of it to fatten yourself upon? Is all your father's virtue, tell me,
vanished from your heart? Your father--your name is Engelbrecht--no!
when I hear you called so I will not believe that it is the name of
my comrade, who was a pattern of virtue and honesty, but I must
believe that it is Satan, who in the apish mockery of Hell is
shouting the name across his grave, and so beguiling men to take the
young lying lawyer's cub for the real son of that excellent
carpenter Gottfried Engelbrecht. Begone! you are no longer my
foster-son! You are a serpent whom I will pluck from my bosom, whom
I will disown"----
At this point Nanni rushed in and threw herself at
Master Wacht's feet with a piercing heart-rending cry of distress.
"Father!" she cried, completely overcome by her incontrollable
anguish and unbridled despair, "father, if you disown him, you will
disown me also--me, your own favourite daughter; he is mine, my
Jonathan; I can never, never part with him in this world."
The poor child fell down in a swoon and struck her
head against the closet-door, so that the drops of blood trickled
down her delicate white forehead. Barbara and Rettel ran in and
carried the insensible girl to the sofa. Jonathan stood like a
statue, as if thunderstruck, incapable of the slightest movement. It
would be difficult to describe the inner emotions which revealed
themselves on Wacht's countenance. His face, instead of being
flushed with the redness of anger, was now pale as a corpse's; there
only remained a dark fire gleaming in his fixed set eyes; the cold
perspiration of death appeared to be standing on his forehead. After
gazing unchangeably before him for some minutes without speaking, he
relieved his labouring breast by saying in a significant tone, "So
that was it!" then he strode slowly towards the door, where he again
stood still, and turning half round towards the women, cried, "Dont'
spare eau de Cologne, and this foolery
will soon be over."
Shortly afterwards the Master was seen to leave
the house at a quick pace and bend his steps towards the hills. It
may be conceived in what great trouble and distress the family was
plunged. Rettel and Barbara could not for the life of them imagine
what terrible thing had happened; but when the Master did not return
to dinner, but stayed out till late at night--a thing he had never
done before--they were greatly agitated with anxiety and fear. At
length they heard him coming, heard him open the street-door, bang
it violently to, ascend the stairs with strong firm footsteps, and
lock himself in his own chamber.
Poor Nanni soon recovered herself again and wept
quietly to herself. But Jonathan did not stop short of wild
outbreaks of inconsolable despair, and several times spoke of
shooting himself. It is a fortunate thing that pistols are articles
which do not necessarily belong to the furniture of sentimental
young lawyers; or at least, if they are to be found amongst their
effects, they generally have no lock or else won't go off.
After he had run through certain streets like a
madman, Jonathan's course led him instinctively to his noble patron,
to whom he lamented all his unheard-of misery in outbreaks of the
most violent passion. It need hardly be added, it is so self-evident
a thing, that the young love-smitten advocate was, according to his
own desperate assertions, the first and only individual in all the
wide world whom such a terrible fate had befallen, wherefore he
reproached destiny and all the powers of enmity as having conspired
together against him.
The canon listened to him calmly and with a
certain share of interest; but nevertheless he did not appear to
appreciate the full extent of the trouble which the young lawyer
imagined he felt "My dear young friend," said the canon, taking the
advocate by the hand in a friendly way, and leading him to a seat,
"my dear young friend, hitherto I have looked upon our carpenter
Herr Johannes Wacht as a great man in his way, but I now perceive
that he is also a very great fool. Great fools are like jibbing
horses; it's hard to make them move; but once they have been got to
move, they trot merrily along the way they are wanted to go. In
spite of the old man's senseless anger you ought not by any means to
give up your beautiful Nanni in consequence of the unpleasant scene
of today. But before proceeding to talk further about your
love-affair, which is indeed very charming and romantic, let us turn
to and discuss a little breakfast. It was noon when you went to old
Wacht, and I don't dine until four o'clock in Seehof."9
A very appetising breakfast indeed was served up
on the little table at which they both sat--the canon and the
advocate--Bayonne hams, garnished round about with slices of
Portuguese onions, a cold larded partridge of the red kind and a
foreigner to boot, truffles cooked in red wine, a dish of Strasburg
pâtés de foie gras, finally a plate of
genuine Strachino10
and another with butter, as yellow and shining as lilies of the
valley.
The indulgent reader who loves such dainty butter,
and ever goes to Bamberg, will be pleased at getting there the
finest and best, but will also at the same time be annoyed when he
learns that the inhabitants, from mistaken notions of housekeeping,
melt it down to a grease, which generally tastes rancid and spoils
all the food.
Besides, good dry champagne was sending up its
pearly sparkles in a beautifully-cut crystal decanter. The canon had
not unloosed the napkin from his neck, but had let it stay where it
was when he had received the young lawyer; and, after the footman
had quickly supplied a second cover, he proceeded to place the
choicest morsels before the despairing lover and to pour out wine
for him; and then he set to work heartily himself. Some one once had
the hardihood to maintain that the stomach is equivalent to all the
other physical and intellectual parts of man put together. That is a
profane and abominable doctrine; but this much is certain, that the
stomach is like a despotic tyrant or ironical mystifier, and often
carries through its own will. And this was the case in the present
instance. For instinctively, without being clearly conscious of what
he was about, the young lawyer had in a few minutes devoured a huge
piece of Bayonne ham, created terrible devastation amongst the
Portuguese garniture, put out of sight half a partridge, no
inconsiderable quantity of trufles, and also more Strasburg
pâtés than was exactly becoming in a young
advocate full of trouble. Moreover, they both relished the champagne
so much that the footman soon had to fill up the crystal decanter a
second time.
The advocate felt a pleasant and beneficial degree
of warmth penetrate his vitals, and all he experienced of his
trouble was a singular sort of shiver, which exactly resembled
electric shocks, causing pain but doing good. He proved himself
susceptible to the consolations of his patron, who, after
comfortably sipping up his last glass of wine and elegantly wiping
his mouth, settled himself into position and began as follows:--
"In the first place, my dear good friend, you must
not be so foolish as to imagine that you are the only man on earth
to whom a father has refused the hand of his daughter. But that's
nothing to do with the present case. As I have already told you, the
old fool's reason for hating you is so preposterously absurd that it
cannot last long; and whether it appear to you at this moment
nonsensical or not, I can hardly bear the thought of all ending in a
tame commonplace wedding, so that the whole thing may be summed up
in the few words,--Peter has wooed Grete,11
and Peter and Grete are man and wife.
"The situation is, however, so far new and grand
in that it is merely hatred against a class to which the beloved
foster-son belongs that can furnish the sole lever for setting a new
and special tragic development in motion; but to the real matter at
issue! You are a poet, my friend, and that alters everything. Your
love, your trouble, ought to appear in your eyes as something
magnificent, in the full splendours of the sacred art of poesy. You
will hear the strains of the lyre struck by the muse who is nearest
akin to you, and in the divine gush of inspiration you will receive
the winged words in which to express your love and your unhappiness.
As a poet you might be called at this moment the happiest man on the
earth, since, your heart having been really wounded as deep as it
can be wounded, your heart's blood is now gushing out. You require,
therefore, no artificial incitement to allure you to a poetic mood;
and mark my words, this period of trouble will enable you to produce
something great and admirable.
"I must draw your attention to the fact that in
these first moments of your unhappiness there will be mingled with
it a peculiar and very unpleasant feeling which cannot be woven into
any poetry; but it is a feeling which soon vanishes away. Let me
make you understand. For example, after the unfortunate lover has
had a good sound drubbing from the enraged father, and has been
kicked out of the house, and the outraged mamma has locked the young
lady in her chamber, and repelled the attempted storming on the part
of the desperate lover by the armed domestics of the house, and when
plebeian fists have even entertained no shyness of the very finest
cloth" (here the canon sighed somewhat), "then this fermented prose
of miserable vulgarity must evaporate in order that the pure poetic
unhappiness of love may settle as sediment You have been fearfully
scolded, my dear young friend, this was the bitter prose that had to
be surmounted; you have surmounted it, and so now give yourself up
entirely to poetry. Here--here are Petrarch's
Sonnets and Ovid's
Elegies; take them,
read them, write yourself, and come and read to me what you have
written. Perhaps in the meantime I also may experience a
disappointment in love, of which I am not altogether deprived of
hopes, since I shall in all likelihood fall in love with a stranger
lady who has stopped at the 'White Lamb' in the Steinweg,12
and whom Count Nesselstädt maintains to be a paragon of beauty and
grace, albeit he has only caught a fugitive glimpse of her at the
window. Then, my friend, like the Dioscuri, we will travel the same
bright path of poetry and disappointed love. Note, my good fellow,
what a great advantage my station in life gives me, for every
affection which I conceive, being a longing and hoping which can
never be gratified, rises to tragic intensity. But now, my friend,
out, out, away into the woods as you ought to."
It would doubtless be very wearisome to my kind
reader, if not unbearable, were I to describe here at length, in
detail and with all sorts of over-choice and exquisite words and
phrases, all that Jonathan and Nanni did in their trouble. Such
things may be found in any indifferent romance; and it is often
amusing enough to see into what postures the struggling author
throws himself, merely in order to appear original. On the other
hand, it seems to be of great importance to follow Master Wacht on
his walks, or rather in his mental journeyings.
It must appear very remarkable that a man of such
strong self-reliant spirit as Master Wacht, who had borne with
unshaken courage and unbending steadfastness the most terrible
misfortunes that had befallen him, and that would have crushed many
less stouthearted spirits, could be thus put beside himself with
passion at an occurrence which any other father of a family would
have regarded as an ordinary event and one easy to remedy, and would
in fact have set about remedying it in some way or other, good or
bad. Of course the indulgent reader is well aware that this
behaviour of Wacht's must be traced to some good psychological
reason. The thought that poor Nanni's love for innocent Jonathan was
a misfortune which would exercise a pernicious influence upon the
whole course of his subsequent life was only due to the perverse
discord in Wacht's soul. But the very fact that this discord was
able to go on making itself heard in the otherwise harmonical
character of this thoroughly noble man, embraced the impossibility
of smothering it or reducing it completely to silence.
Wacht had made his acquaintance with the feminine
character in one who possessed it in a simple but also at the same
time grand and noble form. His own wife had enabled him to see into
the depths of the real woman's nature, as in a bright mirror-like
lake. He saw in her the true heroine who fought with weapons that
were constantly unconquerable. His orphan wife had forfeited the
inheritance of an immensely rich aunt, she had forfeited the love of
all her relatives, and she had opposed with unshaken courage the
persistent efforts of the Church, which embittered her life with
many a hard trial, when, though herself trained up in the Catholic
religion, she had married the Protestant Wacht, and shortly before
had gone over to this faith in Augsburg, impelled thereto by the
pure enthusiasm of conviction. All this now passed through Master
Wacht's mind; and as he thought upon the sentiments he had felt when
he led the maiden to the altar, the warm tears ran down his cheeks.
Nanni was her mother over again; Wacht loved the child with an
intensity of affection that was quite unparalleled, and this fact
was of itself more than enough to make him reject as abominable,
nay, as fiendishly cruel, any attempt to separate the lovers that
appeared in the remotest degree to savour of violence. When, on the
other hand, he reflected upon the whole course of Jonathan's
previous life, he was obliged to admit that all the virtues of a
good, industrious, and modest youth could not easily be so happily
united in another as they were in Jonathan, albeit his handsome
expressive face bore the impress of traits which were perhaps a
little too soft, and almost effeminate, and his diminutive and weak
but elegant bodily frame bespoke a tender intellectual spirit. When
he reflected further that the two children had always been together,
and how evident had been their mutual liking for each other, he was
really puzzled to understand how it was that he had not expected
beforehand what had now really happened, and so could have taken
precautions in time. Now it was too late.
He was urged on through the hills by a mood of
mind which set his whole being in a turmoil of distraction; such a
state as this he had hitherto never experienced, and he was inclined
to take it for a seduction of Satan, since several thoughts arose in
his mind which in the very next minute he could not help regarding
as diabolical. He could not recover his self-composure, still less
form any decisive plan of action. The sun was beginning to set when
he reached the village of Buch;13
turning into the hotel, he ordered something good to eat and a
bottle of excellent beer from the rock.14
"Ah! a very fine evening! Ah! what a remarkable
occurrence to see our good Master Wacht here in beautiful Buch, on
this glorious Sunday evening. To tell you the truth, I can hardly
believe my eyes. Your respected family is, I presume, somewhere else
in the country." Thus was Master Wacht addressed by some one with a
shrill, squeaking voice. The man who thus interrupted his
meditations was no less a personage than Herr Pickard Leberfink, a
decorator and gilder by trade, and one of the drollest men in the
world.
Leberfink's exterior struck everybody's eye as
something eccentric and extraordinary. He was of small size, thick
and stumpy, with a body too long, and with short bowed legs; his
face was not at all ugly, but good-natured, with round red little
cheeks and small grey eyes that were by no means wanting in
vivacity. Pursuant to an old obsolete French fashion, he was
elaborately curled and powdered every day; but it was on Sundays
that his costume was especially striking. For then he wore, to take
one example, a striped silk coat of a lilac and canary- yellow
colour with immense silver-plated buttons, a waistcoat embroidered
in gay tints, satin hose of a brilliant green, white and light-blue
silk stockings, delicately striped, and shining black polished
shoes, upon which glittered large buckles set with precious stones.
If to this we add that his gait was the elegant gait of a dancing
master, that he had a certain cat-like suppleness of body, and that
his little legs had a strange knack of knocking the heels together
on fitting occasions,--for instance, when leaping across a
gutter,--it could not fail but that the little decorator got himself
singled out everywhere as an extraordinary creature. With other
aspects of his character my kindly reader will make an acquaintance
presently.
Master Wacht was not altogether displeased at
having his painful meditations interrupted in this way. Herr, or
better Monsieur Pickard Leberfink, decorator and gilder, was a great
fop, but at the same time the most honest and faithful soul in the
world; he was a very liberal- minded man, was generous to the poor,
and always ready to serve his friends. He only practised his calling
now and again, merely out of love for it, since he had no need of
business. He was rich; his father had left him some landed property,
having a magnificent rock-cellar, which was only separated from
Master Wacht's premises by a large garden. Master Wacht was fond of
the droll little Leberfink on account of his downright genuineness,
and also because he was a member of the small Protestant community
which was permitted to exercise the rites of its faith in Bamberg.
With conspicuous alacrity and willingness Leberfink accepted Wacht's
invitation to join him at his table, and drink another bottle of
beer from the rock along with him. He began the conversation by
saying that for a long time he had been wanting to call upon Master
Wacht at his own house, since he had two things he wished to talk to
him about, one of which was almost making his heart burst. Wacht
made answer, he thought Leberfink knew him, and must be aware that
anybody who had anything to say to him, no matter what it was, might
speak out his thoughts frankly. Leberfink now imparted to the Master
in confidence that the wine-dealer who owned the beautiful garden,
with the massive pavilion, which lay between their two properties,
had privately offered to sell it to him. He thought he recollected
having heard Wacht once express a wish how very much he should like
to own this garden; if now the opportunity was come to satisfy this
wish, he (Leberfink) offered his services as negotiator, and
expressed his willingness to settle everything for him.
It was a fact that Master Wacht had for some time
entertained a desire to enlarge his property by the addition of a
good garden, and especially so since Nanni was always longing for
the beautiful shrubs and trees which gave out such a luxurious
abundance of sweet scents in this very garden. Moreover, it seemed
to him now as if Fortune were graciously smiling upon him, and just
at the time when poor Nanni had experienced such bitter trouble, an
opportunity for affording her pleasure should present itself so
unexpectedly. The Master at once settled all the needful particulars
with the obliging decorator, who promised that on the following
Sunday Wacht should be able to stroll through the garden as its
owner. "Come now," cried Master Wacht, "come now, friend Leberfink,
out with it--what is it that is making your heart burst?"
Then Herr Pickard Leberfink fell to sighing in the
most pitiable manner; and he pulled the most extraordinary faces,
and ran on with such a string of gibberish that nobody could make
either head or tail of it. Master Wacht, however, knew what to make
of it, for he shook his head, saying, "Ah! that may be contrived;"
and he smiled to himself at the wonderful sympathy of their related
spirits.
This meeting with Leberfink had certainly done
Master Wacht good; he believed he had conceived a plan by virtue of
which he should manage not only to stand against, but even to
overcome, the severest and most terrible misfortune which, according
to his infatuated way of thinking, had come upon him. The only thing
that can declare the verdict of the tribunal within him is the
course of action he adopted; and perhaps, kindly reader, this
tribunal faltered for the first time. Here is the place to offer a
brief remark, which, perhaps, would not very well lend itself for
insertion later. As so frequently happens in such cases, old Barbara
had interfered in the matter, and been very urgent in her
accusations of the loving pair to Master Wacht, making it a special
charge against them that they had always read worldly books
together. The Master caused her to bring two or three of the books
which Nanni had. One was a work of Goethe's; unfortunately it is not
known which work it was. After turning over the leaves, he gave it
back to Barbara, that she might restore it to the place whence she
had secretly taken it. Not a single word about Nanni's reading ever
escaped him; once only, when some seasonable occasion presented at
dinner, did he say, "There is a remarkable mind rising up amongst us
Germans; God grant him success! My days are over; such things are
not for my age, nor yet for my calling; but you--Jonathan? I envy
you many things that will come to light in the days to come."
Jonathan understood Wacht's oracular words the more easily, since
some days previously he had discovered by chance
Götz von Berlichingen15
lying on the Master's work-table, half covered by other papers.
Wacht's great mind, whilst acknowledging the uncommon genius of the
new writer, had also perceived the impossibility of beginning a new
flight himself.
Next day poor Nanni hung her head like a sick
dove. "What's the matter with my dear child?" asked Master Wacht in
the tender sympathetic tone that was so peculiarly his own, and with
which he knew how to stir everybody's heart, "what's the matter with
my dear child? are you ill? I can't believe it. You don't get out
into the fresh air sufficiently. See here now; I have a long time
been wishing you would for once in a way bring me my tea out to the
workshop. Do so to-day; we may expect a most beautiful evening. You
will come, won't you, Nanni, my darling? You will butter me some
rolls yourself--that will make them ever so good." Therewith Master
Wacht took the dear girl in his arms and stroked her brown curls
back from her forehead, and he kissed her and pressed her to his
heart, and tenderly caressed her,--treating her, in fact, in the
most affectionate way that he knew how; and he was well aware of the
irresistible charm of his manner at such times. A flood of tears
gushed from Nanni's eyes, and with some difficulty all she could get
out was, "Father! father!" "Well, well!" said Wacht, and a strain of
embarrassment might have been detected in his voice, "all may yet
turn out well."
A week passed; naturally enough Jonathan had not
shown himself, and the Master had not mentioned him with a single
syllable. On Sunday, when the soup was standing smoking on the
table, and the family were about to take their seats for dinner.
Master Wacht asked gaily, "And where is our Jonathan?" Rettel, with
a view to sparing poor Nanni, replied in an undertone, "Father,
don't you know then what's taken place? Wouldn't Jonathan of course
be shy of showing himself here in your presence?" "Oh the monkey!"
said Wacht, laughing; "let Christian run over at once and fetch
him."
It need hardly be said that the young advocate
failed not to put in an appearance immediately, nor that during the
first moments after his arrival a dark oppressive thunder-cloud, as
it were, hovered over them all. At length, however, Master Wacht's
unconstrained good spirits, seconded by Leberfink's droll sallies,
succeeded in calling forth a tone of conversation which, if it could
not be called exactly merry, yet managed to maintain the balance of
concord pretty evenly. After dinner Master Wacht said, "Let us get a
little fresh air and stroll out to my workyard." And they did so.
Monsieur Pickard Leberfink deliberately kept close
to Rettelchen's side, who was a pattern of friendliness towards him,
since the polite decorator had exhausted himself in praising her
dishes, and had confessed that never so long as he had lived, not
even when dining with the ecclesiastics in Banz,16
had he enjoyed a more delicious meal. As Master Wacht now hurried on
at a quick pace right across the middle of the workyard, with a
large bundle of keys in his hand, the young lawyer was
unintentionally brought close to Nanni. But all that the lovers
ventured upon were stolen sighs and low soft-breathed love-plaints.
Master Wacht came to a halt in front of a fine
newly-made door, which had been constructed in the wall parting his
workyard from the merchant's garden. He unlocked the door and
stepped in, inviting his family to follow him. They, none of them,
knew exactly what to make of the old gentleman, except Herr Pickard
Leberfink, who never laid aside his sly smile, or ceased his soft
giggle. In the midst of the beautiful garden there was a very
spacious pavilion; this too Master Wacht opened, and stepping in
remained standing in its centre; from every one of its windows one
obtained a different romantic view. "Yes," said Master Wacht in a
voice that bore witness to a heart well pleased with itself, "here I
am in my own property; this beautiful garden is mine. I was obliged
to buy it, not so much to augment my own place or increase the value
of my property, no! but because I knew that a certain darling little
thing longed so for these shrubs and trees, and for these beautiful
sweet-smelling flower-beds."
Then Nanni threw herself upon the old gentleman's
breast and cried, "O father! father! You will break my heart with
your kindness, with your goodness; do have pity"---- "There, there,
say no more," Master Wacht interrupted his suffering child, "be a
good girl, and all may be brought right in some marvellous way. You
can find a great deal of comfort in this little paradise"---- "Oh!
yes, yes, yes," exclaimed Nanni in a burst of enthusiasm, "O ye
trees, ye shrubs, ye flowers, ye distant hills, you beautiful
fleeting evening clouds--my spirit lives wholly in you all; I shall
come to myself again when your sweet voices comfort me." Therewith
Nanni ran out of the open door of the pavilion into the garden like
a startled young roe; and Jonathan, the lawyer, delayed not to
follow her at his fastest speed, for no power would then have been
able to keep him back. Monsieur Pickard Leberfink requested
permission to show Rettelchen round the new property.
Meanwhile old Wacht had beer and tobacco brought
to a spot under the trees, close at the brow of the hill, whence he
could look down into the valley; and there he sat in a right glad
and comfortable humour, puffing the blue clouds of genuine Holland
into the air. No doubt my kindly reader is wondering greatly at this
frame of mind in Master Wacht, and is at a loss to explain to
himself how a mood like this was at all possible to a temperament
like Wacht's. He had arrived, not so much at any determined plan as
at the conviction that the Eternal Power could not possibly let him
live to experience such a very terrible misfortune as that of seeing
his favourite child united to a lawyer; that is, to Satan himself.
"Something will happen," he said to himself; "something must happen,
by which either this unhappy affair will be broken off or Jonathan
snatched from the pit of destruction. It would be rash temerity,
nay, perhaps a ruinous piece of mischief, producing the exact
contrary of what was wished, if with my feeble hand I were to
attempt to control the fly-wheel of Destiny."
It is hard to credit what miserable, nay, often
what absurd reasons a man will hunt up in order to represent the
approaching misfortune as avertable. So there were moments in which
Wacht built his hopes upon the arrival of wild Sebastian, whom he
pictured to himself as a stalwart young fellow in the full flush and
pride of youth, just on the point of attaining to manhood, and that
he would bring about a change of direction in the drifting of
circumstances, and make things different from what they then were.
The very common, and alas! often too true idea came into his head,
that woman is too greatly impressed by strong and striking manliness
not to be conquered by it at last.
When the sun began to go down, Monsieur Pickard
Leberfink invited the family to go into his garden, which adjoined
their own, and take a little refreshment. Beside Wacht's new
possession the noble decorator and gilder's garden formed a most
ridiculous and extraordinary contrast. Whilst almost too small in
size, so that the only thing it could perhaps boast in its favour
was the good height at which it was situated, it was laid out in
Dutch style, the trees and hedges clipped with the shears in the
most scrupulous and pedantic fashion. The slender stems of the
fruit-trees standing in the flower-beds looked very pretty in their
coats of light blue and rose tints, and pale yellow, and other
colours. Leberfink had varnished them, and so beautified Nature.
Moreover they saw in the trees the apples of the Hesperides.17
But yet several further surprises were in store.
Leberfink bade the girls pluck themselves a nosegay each; but on
gathering the flowers they perceived to their amazement that both
stalks and leaves were gilded. It was also very remarkable that all
the leaves which Rettel took into her hands were shaped like hearts.
The refreshment upon which Leberfink regaled his
guests consisted of the choicest confectionery, the finest
sweetmeats, and old Rhine wine and Muscatel. Rettel was quite beside
herself over the confectionery, observing with special emphasis that
such sweetmeats, which were for the most part splendidly silvered
and gilded, were not, she knew made in Bamberg. Then Monsieur
Pickard Leberfink assured her privately, with a most amorous smirk,
that he himself knew a little about baking cakes and sweets, and
that he was the happy maker of all these delicious dainties. Rettel
almost fell upon her knees before him in reverence and astonishment;
and yet the greatest surprise, was still in store for her.
In the deepening dusk Monsieur Pickard Leberfink
very cleverly contrived to entice little Rettel into a small arbour.
No sooner was he alone with her than he recklessly plumped himself
down upon both knees in the wet grass, notwithstanding that he was
wearing his brilliant green satin hose; and, amidst many strange and
unintelligible sounds of distress--not very dissimilar to the
midnight elegies of the tom-cat Hinz18--he
presented her with an immense nosegay of flowers, in the middle of
which was the finest full-blown rose that could be found anywhere.
Rettel did what everybody does who has a nosegay given to him; she
raised it to her nose; but in the selfsame moment she felt a sharp
prick. In her alarm she was about to throw the nosegay away. But see
what charming wonder had revealed itself in the meantime! A
beautifully varnished little cupid had leapt up out of the heart of
the rose and was holding out a burning heart with both hands towards
Rettel. From his mouth depended a small strip of paper on which were
written the words, "Voilà le cœur de Monsieur Pickard Leberfink, que
je vous offre" (Here I offer you the heart of Monsieur Pickard
Leberfink).
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Rettel, very much
alarmed. "Good gracious! what are you doing, my good Herr Leberfink?
Don't kneel down in front of me as if I were a princess. You will
make marks on your beautiful satin--in the wet grass, and you will
catch cold yourself; but elder tea and white sugar candy are good
remedies."
"No!" exclaimed the desperate lover--"No, O
Margaret, Pickard Leberfink, who loves you with all his heart, will
not rise from the wet grass until you promise to be his"---- "You
want to marry me?" asked Rettel. "Well then, up you get at once.
Speak to my father, darling Leberfink, and drink one or two cups of
elder tea this evening."
Why should the reader be longer wearied with
Leberfink's and Rettel's folly? They were made for each other, and
were betrothed, at which Father Wacht was right glad in his own
teasing, humorous way.
A certain degree of life was introduced into
Wacht's house by Rettel's betrothal; and even the disconsolate
lovers had more freedom, since they were less observed. But
something of a quite special character was to happen to put an
abrupt end to this quiet and comfortable condition in which they
were all living. The young lawyer seemed particularly preoccupied,
and his thoughts busy with some affair or another that absorbed all
his energies; his visits at Wacht's house even began to be less
frequent, and he often stayed away in the evening--a thing he had
never been wont to do previously. "What can be the matter with our
Jonathan? He is completely preoccupied; he's quite another fellow
from what he used to be," said Master Wacht, although he knew very
well what was the cause, or rather the event, which was exercising
such a visible influence upon the young lawyer, at least to all
outward appearance. To tell the truth, he looked upon this event as
the dispensation of Providence through which he should perhaps
escape the great misfortune by which he believed himself threatened,
and which he felt would completely upset all the happiness of his
life.
Some few months previously a young and unknown
lady had arrived in Bamberg, and under circumstances which could
only be called singular and mysterious. She was staying at the
"White Lamb." All the servants she had with her were an old
grey-haired manservant and an old lady's- maid. Very various were
the opinions current about her. Many maintained she was a
distinguished and immensely rich Hungarian countess, who, owing to
matrimonial dissensions, was compelled to take up her residence in
solitary retirement in Bamberg for a time. Others, on the contrary,
set her down as an ordinary forsaken Dido, and yet others as an
itinerant singer, who would soon throw off her veil of nobility and
announce herself as about to give a concert,--possibly she had no
recommendations to the Prince-bishop. At any rate the majority were
unanimous in making up their minds to regard the stranger, who,
according to the statements of the few persons who had seen her, was
of exceptional beauty, as an extremely ambiguous person.
It had been noticed that the stranger lady's old
man-servant had followed the young lawyer about a long time, until
one day he caught him at the spring in the market-place, which is
ornamented with an image of Neptune (whom the honest folk of Bamberg
are generally in the habit of calling the Fork-man); and there the
old man stood talking to Jonathan a long, long time. Spirits alive
to all that goes forward, who can never meet anybody without asking
eagerly, "Wherever has he been? Wherever is he going? Whatever is he
doing?" and so on, had made out that the young advocate very often
visited the beautiful unknown, in fact almost every day and at
night-time, when he spent several hours with her. It was soon the
talk of the town that the lawyer Jonathan Engelbrecht had got
entangled in the dangerous toils of the young unknown adventuress.
It would have been, both then and always, entirely
contrary to Master Wacht's character to make use of this apparent
erring conduct of the young advocate as a weapon against poor Nanni.
He left it to Dame Barbara and her whole following of gossips to
keep Nanni informed of all particulars; from them she would learn
every item of intelligence, and that, he made no doubt, with a due
amplification of all the details. The crisis of the whole affair was
reached when one day the young lawyer suddenly set off on a journey
along with the lady, nobody knew whither. "That's the way frivolity
goes on; the forward young gentleman will lose his business," said
the knowing ones. But this was not the case; for not a little to the
astonishment of the public, old Eichheimer himself attended to his
foster-son's business with the most painstaking care; he seemed to
be initiated into the secret about the lady and to approve of all
the steps taken by his foster-son.
Master Wacht never spoke a word about the matter,
and once when poor Nanni could no longer hide her trouble, but
moaned in a low tone, her voice half-choked with tears, "Why has
Jonathan left us?" Master Wacht replied in an off-handed way, "Ay,
that's just what lawyers do. Who knows what sort of an intrigue
Jonathan has got entangled in with the stranger, thinking it will
bring him money, and be to his advantage?" Then, however, Herr
Pickard Leberfink was wont to take Jonathan's side, and to assert
that he for his part was convinced the stranger could be nothing
less than a princess, who had had recourse to the already
world-renowned young advocate in an extremely delicate law-suit And
therewith he also unearthed so many stories about lawyers who,
through especial sagacity and especial penetration and skill, had
unravelled the most complicated difficulties, and brought to light
the most closely hidden things, till Master Wacht begged him for
goodness' sake to hold his tongue, since he was feeling quite ill
and sick; Nanni, on the contrary, derived inward comfort from all
Leberfink's remarkable stories, and she plucked up her hopes again.
With her trouble, however, there was united a perceptible mixture of
annoyance and anger, and particularly at the moments when it seemed
to her utterly impossible that Jonathan could have been untrue to
her. From this it might be inferred that Jonathan had not sought to
exculpate himself, but had obstinately maintained silence about his
adventure.
After some months had elapsed the young lawyer
came back to Bamberg in the highest good spirits; and Master Wacht,
on seeing the bright glad light in Nanni's eyes when she looked at
him, could not well do otherwise than conclude that Jonathan had
fully justified his conduct to her. Doubtless it would not be
disagreeable to the indulgent reader to have the history of what had
taken place between the stranger lady and the young lawyer inserted
here as an episodical novella.
Count Z----, a Hungarian, owner of more than a
million, married from pure affection a miserably poor girl, who drew
down upon her head the hatred of his family, not only because her
own family was enshrouded in complete obscurity, but also because
the only valuable treasures she possessed were her divine virtue,
beauty, and grace. The Count promised his wife that at his death he
would settle all his property upon her by will.
Once when he returned to Vienna into the arms of
his wife, after having been summoned from Paris to St. Petersburg on
diplomatic business, he related to her that he had been attacked by
a severe illness in a little town, the name of which he had quite
forgotten; there he had seized the opportunity whilst recovering
from his illness to draw up a will in her favour and deposit it with
the court. Some miles farther on the road he must have been seized
with a new and doubly virulent attack of his grave nervous
complaint, so that the name of the place where he had made his will
and that of the court where he had deposited it had completely
slipped his memory; moreover, he had lost the document of receipt
from the court acknowledging the deposition of the testament. As so
often happens in similar cases the Count postponed the making of a
new will from day to day, until he was overtaken by death. Then his
relatives did not neglect to lay claim to all the property he left
behind him, so that the poor Countess saw her too rich inheritance
melted down to the insignificant sum represented by certain valuable
presents she had received from the Count, and which his relatives
could not deprive her of. Many different notifications bearing upon
the features of the case were found amongst the Count's papers; but
since such statements, that a will was in existence, could not take
the place of the will itself, they proved not to be of the slightest
advantage to the Countess. She had consulted many learned lawyers
about her unfortunate situation, and had finally come to Bamberg to
have recourse to old Eichheimer; but he had directed her to young
Engelbrecht, who, being less busy and equipped with excellent
intellectual acuteness and great love for his profession, would
perhaps be able to get a clue to the unfortunate will or furnish
some other circumstantial proof of its actual existence.
The young advocate set to work by requesting
permission of the competent authorities to submit the Count's papers
in the castle to another searching investigation. He himself went
thither along with the Countess; and in the presence of the
officials of the court he found in a cupboard of nut-wood, that had
hitherto escaped observation, an old portfolio, in which, though
they did not find the Count's document of receipt relating to the
deposition of the will, they yet discovered a paper which could not
fail to be of the utmost importance for the young advocate's
purpose. For this paper contained an accurate description of all the
circumstances, even the minutest details, under which the Count had
made a will in favour of his wife and deposited it in the keeping of
a court. The Count's diplomatic journey from Paris to Petersburg had
brought him to Königsberg in Prussia. Here he chanced to come across
some East Prussian noblemen, whom he had previously met with whilst
on a visit to Italy. In spite of the express rate at which the Count
was travelling, he nevertheless suffered himself to be persuaded to
make a short excursion into East Prussia, particularly as the big
hunts had begun, and the Count was a passionate sportsman. He named
the towns Wehlau, Allenburg, Friedland, &c., as places where he had
been. Then he set out to go straight forwards directly to the
Russian frontier, without returning to Königsberg.
In a little town, whose wretched appearance the
Count could hardly find words to describe, he was suddenly
prostrated by a nervous disorder, which for several days quite
deprived him of consciousness. Fortunately there was a young and
right clever doctor in the place, who opposed a stout resistance to
the disease, so that the Count not only recovered consciousness but
also his health, so far that after a few days he was in a position
to continue his journey. But his heart was oppressed with the fear
that a second attack on the road might kill him, and so plunge his
wife in a condition of the most straitened poverty. Not a little to
his astonishment he learned from the doctor that the place, in spite
of its small size and wretched appearance, was the seat of a
Prussian provincial court, and that he could there have his will
registered with all due formality, as soon as he could succeed in
establishing his identity. This, however, was a most formidable
difficulty, for who knew the Count in this district? But wonderful
are the doings of Accident! Just as the Count got out of his
carriage in front of the inn of the little town, there stood in the
doorway a grey-haired old invalid, almost eighty years old, who
dwelt in a neighbouring village and earned a living by plaiting
willow baskets, and who only seldom came into the town. In his youth
he had served in the Austrian army, and for fifteen successive years
had been groom to the Count's father. At the first glance he
remembered his master's son; and he and his wife acted as fully
legitimated vouchers of the Count's identity, and not to their
detriment, as may well be conceived.
The young advocate at once saw that all depended
upon the locality and its exact correspondence with the Count's
statements, if he wanted to glean further details and find a clue to
the place where the Count had been ill and made his testament. He
set off with the Countess for East Prussia. There by examination of
the post-books he was desirous of making out, if possible, the route
of travel pursued by the Count. But after a good deal of wasted
effort, he only managed to discover that the Count had taken
post-horses from Eylau to Allenburg. Beyond Allenburg every trace
was lost; nevertheless he satisfied himself that the Count had
certainly travelled through Prussian Lithuania, and of this he was
still further convinced on finding registered at Tilsit that the
Count had arrived there and departed thence by extra post. Beyond
this point again all traces were lost. Accordingly it seemed to the
young advocate that they must seek for the solution of the
difficulty in the short stretch of country between Allenburg and
Tilsit.
Quite dispirited and full of anxious care he
arrived one rainy evening at the small country town of Insterburg,
accompanied by the Countess. On entering the wretched apartments in
the inn, he became conscious that a strange kind of expectant
feeling was taking possession of him. He felt so like being at home
in them, as if he had even been there before, or as if the place had
been most accurately described to him. The Countess withdrew to her
apartments. The young advocate tossed restlessly on his bed. When
the morning sun shone in brightly through the window, his eyes fell
upon the paper in one corner of the room. He noticed that a large
patch of the blue colour with which the room was but lightly washed
had fallen off, showing the disagreeable glaring yellow that formed
the ground colour, and upon it he observed that all kinds of hideous
faces in the New Zealand style had been painted to serve as pleasing
arabesques. Perfectly beside himself with joy and delight, the young
lawyer sprang out of bed. He was in the room in which Count Z----
had made the all-important will. The description agreed too exactly;
there could not be any doubt about the matter.
But why now weary the reader with all the minor
details of the things that now took place one after the other?
Suffice it to say that Insterburg was then, as it still is, the seat
of a Prussian superior tribunal, at that time called an Imperial
Court. The young advocate at once waited upon the president with the
Countess. By means of the papers which she had brought with her, and
which were drawn up in due authenticated form, the Countess
established her own identity in the most satisfactory manner; and
the will was publicly declared to be perfectly genuine. Hence the
Countess, who had left her own country in great distress and
poverty, now returned in the full possession of all the rights of
which a hostile destiny had attempted to deprive her.
In Nanni's eyes the advocate appeared like a hero
from heaven, who had victoriously protected deserted innocence
against the wickedness of the world. Leberfink also poured out all
his great admiration of the young lawyer's acuteness and energy in
exaggerated encomiums. Master Wacht, too, praised Jonathan's
industry, and this trait he emphasised; and yet the boy had really
done nothing but what it was his duty to do; still he somehow
fancied that things might have been managed in a much shorter way.
"This event I regard," said Jonathan, "as a star of real good
fortune, which has risen upon the path of my career almost before I
have started upon it The case has created a great deal of sensation.
All the Hungarian magnates are excited about it. My name has become
known. And what is a long way the best of all, the Countess was so
liberal as to honour me with ten thousand Brabant thalers."19
During the course of the young advocate's
narration, the muscles of Master Wacht's face began to move in a
remarkable way, till at last his countenance wore an expression of
the greatest indignation. "What!" he at length shouted in a
lion-like voice, whilst his eyes flashed fire-- "What! did I not
tell you? You have made a sale of justice. The Countess, in order to
get her lawful inheritance out of the hands of her rascally
relations, has had to pay money, to sacrifice to Mammon. Faugh!
faugh! be ashamed of yourself." All the sensible protestations of
the young advocate, as well as of the rest of the persons who
happened to be present, were not of the slightest avail. For a
second it seemed as if their representations would gain a hearing,
when it was stated that no one had ever given a present with more
willing pleasure than the Countess had done on the sudden conclusion
of her case, and that, as good Leberfink very well knew, the young
advocate had only himself to blame that his honorarium had not
turned out to be more in amount as well as more on a level with the
magnitude of the lady's gain; nevertheless Master Wacht stuck to his
own opinion, and they heard from him in his own obstinate fashion
the familiar words, "So soon as you begin to talk about justice, you
and everybody else in the world ought to hold your tongues about
money. It is true," he went on more calmly after a pause, "there are
several circumstances connected with this history which might very
well excuse you, and yet at the same time lead you astray into base
selfishness; but have the kindness to hold your tongue about the
Countess, and the will, and the ten thousand thalers, if you please.
I should indeed be fancying many a time that you didn't altogether
belong to your place at my table there."
"You are very hard--very unjust towards me,
father," said the young advocate, his voice trembling with sadness.
Nanni's tears flowed quietly; Leberfink, like an experienced man of
the world, hastened to turn the conversation upon the new gildings
in St. Gangolph's.20
It may readily be conceived in what strained
relations the members of Wacht's family now lived. Where was their
unconstrained conversation, their bright good spirits, where their
cheerfulness? A deadly vexation was slowly gnawing at Wacht's heart,
and it stood plainly written upon his countenance.
Meanwhile they received not the least scrap of
intelligence from Sebastian Engelbrecht, and so the last feeble ray
of hope that Master Wacht had seen glimmering appeared about to
fade. Master Wacht's foreman, Andreas by name, was a plain, honest,
faithful fellow, who clung to his master with an affection that
could not be matched anywhere. "Master," said he one morning as they
were measuring beams together--"Master, I can't bear it any longer;
it breaks my heart to see you suffer so. Fräulein Nanni--poor Herr
Jonathan!" Quickly throwing away the measuring lines, Master Wacht
stepped up to him and took him by the breast, saying, "Man, if you
are able to tear out of this heart the convictions as to what is
true and right which have been engraven upon it by the Eternal Power
in letters of fire, then what you are thinking about may come to
pass." Andreas, who was not the man to enter upon a dispute with his
master upon these sort of terms, scratched himself behind his ear,
and replied with an embarrassed smirk, "Then if a certain
distinguished gentleman were to pay a morning visit to the workshop,
I suppose it would produce no particular effect?" Master Wacht
perceived in a moment that a storm was brewing against him, and that
it was in all probability being directed by Count von Kösel.
Just as the clock struck nine Nanni appeared in
the workshop, followed by old Barbara with the breakfast. The Master
was not well pleased to see his daughter, since it was out of rule;
and he saw the programme of the concerted attack already peeping
out. Nor was it long before the minor canon really made his
appearance, as smart and prim and proper as a pet doll. Close at his
heels followed Monsieur Pickard Leberfink, decorator and gilder,
clad in all sorts of gay colours, so that he looked not unlike a
spring-chafer. Wacht pretended to be highly delighted with the
visit, the cause of which he at once insinuated to be that the minor
canon very likely wanted to see his newest models. The truth is,
Master Wacht felt very shy at the possibility of having to listen to
the canon's long-winded sermons, which he would deliver himself of
uselessly if he attempted to shake his (Wacht's) resolution with
respect to Nanni and Jonathan. Accident came to his rescue; for just
as the canon, the young lawyer, and the varnisher were standing
together, and the first-named was beginning to approach the most
intimate relations of life in the most elegantly turned phrases, fat
Hans shouted out "Wood here!" and big Peter on the other side pushed
the wood across to him so roughly that it caught the canon a violent
blow on the shoulder and sent him reeling against Monsieur Pickard;
he in his turn stumbled against the young advocate, and in a trice
the whole three had disappeared. For just behind them was a huge
piled-up heap of chips and saw-dust and so on. The unfortunates were
buried under this heap, so that all that could be seen of them were
four black legs and two buff-coloured ones; the latter were the gala
stockings of Herr Pickard Leberfink, decorator and gilder. It
couldn't possibly be helped; the journeymen and apprentices burst
out into a ringing peal of laughter, notwithstanding that Master
Wacht bade them be still and look grave.
Of them all the canon cut the worst figure, since
the saw-dust had got into the folds of his robe and even into the
elegant curls which adorned his head. He fled as if upon the wings
of the wind, covered with shame, and the young advocate hard after
him. Monsieur Pickard Leberfink was the only one who preserved his
good humour and took the thing in merry part, notwithstanding that
it might be regarded as certain he would never be able to wear the
buff-coloured stockings again, since the saw-dust had proved
especially injurious to them and had quite destroyed the "clock."
Thus the storm which was to have been adventured against Wacht was
baffled by a ridiculous incident. But the Master did not dream what
terrible thing was to happen to him before the day was over.
Master Wacht had finished dinner and was just
going downstairs in order to betake himself to his workyard, when he
heard a loud, rough voice shouting in front of the house, "Hi,
there! This is where that knavish old rascal, Carpenter Wacht,
lives, isn't it?" A voice in the street made answer, "There is no
knavish old rascal living here; this is the house of our respected
fellow-citizen Herr Johannes Wacht, the carpenter." In the same
moment the street-door was forced open with a violent bang, and a
big strong fellow of wild appearance stood before the master. His
black hair stuck up like bristles through his ragged soldier's cap,
and in scores of places his tattered tunic was unable to conceal his
loathsome skin, browned with filth and exposure to rough weather.
The fellow wore soldier's shoes on his feet, and the blue weals on
his ankles showed the traces of the chains he had been fettered
with. "Ho, ho!" cried the fellow, "I bet you don't know me. You
don't know Sebastian Engelbrecht, whom you've cheated out of his
property--not you." With all the imposing dignity of his majestic
form, Master Wacht took a step towards the man, mechanically
advancing the cane he held in his hand. Then the wild fellow seemed
to be almost thunderstruck; he recoiled a few paces, and then raised
his doubled fists shouting, "Ho, ho! I know where my property is,
and I'll go and help myself to it, in spite of you, you old sinner."
And he ran off down the Kaulberg like an arrow from a bow, followed
by the crowd.
Master Wacht stood in the passage like a statue
for several seconds. But when Nanni cried in alarm, "Good heavens!
father, that was Sebastian," he went into the room, more reeling
than walking, and sank down exhausted in an arm-chair; then, holding
both hands before his face, he cried in a heart-rending voice, "By
the eternal mercy of God, that is Sebastian Engelbrecht."
There arose a tumult in the street, the crowd
poured down the Kaulberg, and voices in the far distance could be
heard shouting "Murder! murder!" A prey to the most terrible
apprehensions, the Master, ran down to Jonathan's dwelling, situated
immediately at the foot of the Kaulberg. A dense mass of people were
pushing and crowding together in front of him; in their midst he
perceived Sebastian struggling like a wild animal against the watch,
who had just thrown him upon the ground, where they overpowered him
and bound him hand and foot, and led him away. "O God! O God!
Sebastian has slain his brother," lamented the people, who came
crowding out of the house. Master Wacht forced his way through and
found poor Jonathan in the hands of the doctors, who were exerting
themselves to call him back to life. As he had received three
powerful blows upon the head, dealt with all the strength of a
strong man, the worst was to be feared.
As generally happens under such circumstances,
Nanni learnt immediately the whole history of the affair from her
kind-hearted friends, and at once rushed off to her lover's
dwelling, where she arrived just as the young lawyer, thanks to the
lavish use of naphtha, opened his eyes again, and the doctors were
talking about trepanning. What further took place may be conceived.
Nanni was inconsolable; Rettel, notwithstanding her betrothal, was
sunk in grief; and Monsieur Pickard Leberfink exclaimed, whilst
tears of sorrow ran down his cheeks, "God be merciful to the man
upon whose pate a carpenter's fist falls." The loss of young Herr
Jonathan would be irreparable. At any rate the varnish on his coffin
should be of unsurpassed brightness and blackness; and the silvering
of the skulls and other nice ornaments should baffle all comparison.
It appeared that Sebastian had escaped out of the
hands of a troop of Bavarian soldiers, whilst they were conducting a
band of vagabonds through the district of Bamberg, and he had found
his way into the town in order to carry out a mad project which he
had for a long time been brooding over in his mind. His career was
not that of an abandoned, vicious criminal; it afforded rather an
example of those supremely frivolous-minded men, who, despite the
very admirable qualities with which Nature has endowed them, give
way to every temptation to evil, and finally sinking to the lowest
depths of vice, perish in shame and misery. In Saxony he had fallen
into the hands of a petti-fogging lawyer, who had made him believe
that Master Wacht, when sending him his patrimonial inheritance, had
paid him very much short, and kept back the remainder for the
benefit of his brother Jonathan, to whom he had promised to give his
favourite daughter Nanni to wife. Very likely the old deceiver had
concocted this story out of various utterances of Sebastian himself.
The kindly reader already knows by what violent means Sebastian set
to work to secure his own rights. Immediately after leaving Master
Wacht he had burst into Jonathan's room, where the latter happened
to be sitting at his study table, ordering some accounts and
counting the piles of money which lay heaped up before him. His
clerk sat in the other corner of the room. "Ah! you villain!"
screamed Sebastian in a fury, "there you are sitting over your
mammon. Are you counting what you have robbed me of? Give me here
what yon old rascal has stolen from me and bestowed upon you. You
poor, weak thing! You greedy clutching devil--you!" And when
Sebastian strode close up to him, Jonathan instinctively stretched
out both hands to ward him off, crying aloud, "Brother! for God's
sake, brother!" But Sebastian replied by dealing him several
stunning blows on the head with his double fist, so that Jonathan
sank down fainting. Sebastian hastily seized upon some of the rolls
of gold and was making off with them--in which naturally enough he
did not succeed.
Fortunately it turned out that none of Jonathan's
wounds, which outwardly wore the appearance of large bumps, had
occasioned any serious concussion of the brain, and hence none of
them could be esteemed as likely to prove dangerous. After a lapse
of two months, when Sebastian was taken away to the convict prison,
where he was to atone for his attempt at murder by a heavy
punishment, the young lawyer felt himself quite well again.
This terrible occurrence exerted such a shattering
effect upon Master Wacht that a consuming surly peevishness was the
consequence of it. This time the stout strong oak was shaken from
its topmost branch to its deepest root. Often when his mind was
thought to be busy with quite different matters, he was heard to
murmur in a low tone, "Sebastian--a fratricide! That's how you
reward me?" and then he seemed to come to himself like one awakening
out of a nasty dream. The only thing that kept him from breaking
down was the hardest and most assiduous labour. But who can fathom
the unsearchable depths in which the secret links of feeling are so
strangely forged together as they were in Master Wacht's soul? His
abhorrence of Sebastian and his wicked deed faded out of his mind,
whilst the picture of his own life, ruined by Jonathan's love for
Nanni, deepened in colour and vividness as the days went by. This
frame of mind Master Wacht betrayed in many short exclamations--"So
then your brother is condemned to hard labour and to work in
chains!--That's where he has been brought by his attempted crime
against you--It's a fine thing for a brother to be the cause of
making his own brother a convict--shouldn't like to be in the first
brother's place--but lawyers think differently; they want justice,
that is, they want to play with a lay figure and dress it up and
give it whatever name they please."
Such like bitter, and even incomprehensible
reproaches, the young advocate was obliged to hear from Master
Wacht, and to hear them only too often. Any attempt at rebutting
these charges would have been fruitless. Accordingly Jonathan made
no reply; only often when his heart was almost distracted by the old
man's fatal delusion, which was ruining all his happiness, he broke
out in his exceeding great pain, "Father, father, you are unjust
towards me, exasperatingly unjust."
One day when the family were assembled at the
decorator Leberfink's, and Jonathan also was present, Master Wacht
began to tell how somebody had been saying that Sebastian
Engelbrecht, although apprehended as a criminal, could yet make good
by action at law his claim against Master Wacht, who had been his
guardian. Then, smiling venomously and turning to Jonathan, he went
on, "That would be a pretty case for a young advocate. I thought you
might take up the suit; you might play a part in it yourself;
perhaps I have cheated you as well?" This made the young lawyer
start to his feet; his eyes flashed, his bosom heaved; he seemed all
of a sudden to be quite a different man; stretching his hand towards
Heaven he cried, "No, you shall no longer be my father; you must be
insane to sacrifice without scruple the peace and happiness of the
most loving of children to a ridiculous prejudice. You will never
see me again; I will go and at once accept the offer which the
American consul made to me to-day; I will go to America." "Yes,"
replied Wacht filled with rage and anger, "ay, away out of my eyes,
brother of the fratricide, who've sold your soul to Satan." Casting
upon Nanni, who was half fainting, a look full of hopeless love and
anguish and despair, the young advocate hurriedly left the garden.
It was remarked earlier in the course of this
story when the young lawyer threatened to shoot himself
à la Werther,21
what a good thing it was that the indispensable pistol was in very
many cases not within reach. And here it will be just as useful to
remark that the young advocate was not able, to his own good be it
said, to embark there and then on the Regnitz and sail straight away
to Philadelphia. Hence it was that his threat to leave Bamberg and
his darling Nanni for ever remained still unfulfilled, even when at
last, after two years more had elapsed, the wedding-day of Herr
Leberfink, decorator and gilder, was come. Leberfink would have been
inconsolable at this unjust postponement of his happiness, although
the delay was almost a matter of necessity after the terrible events
which had fallen blow after blow in Wacht's house, had it not
afforded him an opportunity to decorate over again in deep red and
appropriate gold the ornamental work in his parlour, which had
before been gay with nice light-blue and silver, for he had picked
up from Rettelchen that a red table, red chairs, and so on, would be
more in accordance with her taste.
When the happy decorator insisted upon seeing the
young lawyer at his wedding. Master Wacht had not offered a moment's
opposition; and the young lawyer--he was pleased to come. It may be
imagined with what feelings the two young people saw each other
again, for since that terrible moment when Jonathan had left the
garden they had literally not set eyes upon each other. The assembly
was large; but not a single person with whom they were on a friendly
footing fathomed their pain.
Just as they were on the point of setting out for
church. Master Wacht received a thick letter; he had read no more
than a few lines when he became violently agitated and rushed off
out of the room, not a little to the consternation of the rest, who
at once suspected some fresh misfortune. Shortly afterwards Master
Wacht called the young advocate out. When they were alone together
in the Master's own room, the latter, vainly endeavouring to conceal
his excessive agitation, began, "I've got the most extraordinary
news of your brother; here is a letter from the governor of the
prison relating fully all the circumstances of what has taken place.
As you cannot know them all, I must begin at the beginning and tell
you everything right to the end so as to make credible to you what
is incredible; but time presses." So saying, Master Wacht fixed a
keen glance upon the advocate's face, so that he blushed and cast
down his eyes in confusion. "Yes, yes," went on Master Wacht,
raising his voice, "you don't know how great a remorse took
possession of your brother a very few hours after he was put in
prison; there is hardly anybody whose heart has been more torn by
it. You don't know how his attempt at murder and theft has
prostrated him. You don't know how that in mad despair he prayed
Heaven day and night either to kill him or to save him that he might
henceforth by the exercise of the strictest virtue wash himself pure
from bloodguiltiness. You don't know how that on the occasion of
building a large wing to the prison, in which the convicts were
employed as labourers, your brother so distinguished himself as a
clever and well-instructed carpenter that he soon filled the post of
foreman of the workmen, without anybody's noticing how it came about
so. You don't know how his quiet good behaviour, and his modesty,
combined with the decision of his regenerate mind, made everybody
his friend. All this you do not know, and so I am telling it you.
But to go on. The Prince-bishop has pardoned your brother; he has
become a master. But how could all this be done without a supply of
money?" "I know," said the young advocate in a low voice, "I know
that you, my good father, have sent money to the prison authorities
every month, in order that they might keep my brother separate from
the other prisoners and find him better accommodation and better
food. Later on you sent him materials for his trade"---- Then Master
Wacht stepped close up to the young advocate, took him by both arms,
and said in a voice that vacillated in a way that cannot be
described between delight, sadness, and pain, "But would that alone
have helped Sebastian to honour again, to freedom, and his civil
rights, and to property, however strongly his fundamental virtuous
qualities had sprung up again? An unknown philanthropist, who must
take an especially warm interest in Sebastian's fate, has deposited
ten thousand 'large' thalers with the court, to"---- Master Wacht
could not speak any further owing to his violent emotion; he drew
the young advocate impetuously to his heart, crying, though he could
only get out his words with difficulty, "Advocate, help me to
penetrate to the deep import of law such as lives in your breast,
and that I may stand before the Eternal Bar of justice as you will
one day stand before it.--And yet," he continued after a pause of
some seconds, releasing the young lawyer, "and yet, my dear
Jonathan, if Sebastian now comes back as a good and industrious
citizen and reminds me of my pledged word, and Nanni"---- "Then I
will bear my trouble till it kills me," said the young advocate; "I
will flee to America." "Stay here," cried Master Wacht in an
enthusiastic burst of joy and delight, "stay here, son of my heart!
Sebastian is going to marry a girl whom he formerly deceived and
deserted. Nanni is yours."
Once more the Master threw his arms around
Jonathan's neck, saying, "My lad, I feel like a schoolboy before
you, and should like to beg your pardon for all the blame I have put
upon you, and all the injustice I have done you. But let us say no
more; other people are waiting for us." Therewith Master Wacht took
hold of the young lawyer and pulled him along into the room where
the wedding guests were assembled; there he placed himself and
Jonathan in the midst of the company, and said, raising his voice
and speaking in a solemn tone, "Before we proceed to celebrate the
sacred rite I invite you all, my honest friends, ladies and
gentlemen, and you too, my virtuous maidens and young men, six weeks
hence to a similar festival in my house; for here I introduce to you
Herr Jonathan Engelbrecht, the advocate, to whom I herewith solemnly
betroth my youngest daughter, Nanni." The lovers sank into each
other's arms. A breath of the profoundest astonishment passed over
the whole assembly; but good old Andreas, holding his little three-
cornered carpenter's cap before his breast, said softly, "A man's
heart is a wonderful thing; but true, honest faith overcomes the
base and even sinful resoluteness of a hardened spirit; and all
things turn out at last for the best, just as the good God wishes
them to do."
FOOTNOTES TO "MASTER JOHANNES WACHT":
Footnote
1 Included in
a collection of stories entitled Geschichten,
Märchen, und Sagen, Von Fr. H. v. d. Hagen, E. T. A. Hoffmann,
und H. Steffens; Breslau, 1823.]
Footnote
2 See
note p. 81, Vol. II.]
Footnote
3 The stern
inexorable Republican patriot, who kills even his friend Fiesco when
the latter refuses to throw aside the purple dignity he had assumed.
See Schiller's Fiesko, act v., last scene
(cf. I. 10-13; III. 1).]
Footnote
4 A long
hilly street in Bamberg.]
Footnote
5 Pet name
for Johannes, the name of Wacht's son.]
Footnote
6
Rettel and
Rettelchen (little Rettel) are pet names for Margaret.]
Footnote
7 The
anniversary of the consecration of the church is made the occasion
of a great and general festive holiday in many parts of Germany,
particularly in the south.]
Footnote
8 "Noodles"
are long strips of rolled-out paste, made up and cooked in various
ways.]
Footnote
9 Seehof or
Marquardsburg, situated to the north-east of Bamberg, was formerly a
bishop's castle, and was rebuilt by Marquard Sebastian Schenk of
Stauffenberg in 1688.]
Footnote
10
Stracchino, a kind of cheese made in North Italy, especially in
Brescia, Milan, and Bergamo.]
Footnote
11 A pet
name for Gretchen (Margaret), frequently used also as equivalent to
"sweetheart," "lass," just as we might say, "Every Johnny has his
Jeannie."]
Footnote
12 A long
winding suburb of Bamberg.]
Footnote
13 Or Bug,
as it is generally spelled, a pleasure resort on the Regnitz, about
half an hour distant from Bamberg. Hoffmann was in the habit of
visiting it almost daily when he lived at Bamberg.]
Footnote
14 In the
days before ice was preserved on such an extensive scale by the
German brewers as it is at the present time, beer was kept in
excavations in rock, wherever a suitable place could be found; this
made it deliciously cool and fresh.]
Footnote
15 Goethe's
well-known work.]
Footnote
16 A once
rich and celebrated Benedictine abbey between Bamberg and Coburg,
founded in the eleventh century, and frequently destroyed and sacked
in war.]
Footnote
17 That is,
they were golden, or gilded.]
Footnote
18 Hinze is
Tieck's Gestiefelter Kater (Puss in
Boots). The reference is perhaps to act ii. scene 2, where Hinze
goes out to catch rabbits, &c., and hears the nightingale singing,
the humour of the scene lying in the quick alternation of the human
poetic sentiments and the native instincts of the cat.]
Footnote
19 So named
from the place where they were struck. See note, p. 281, Vol. I.,
viz.--Imperial thalers varied in value at different times, but
estimating their value at three shillings, the sum here mentioned
would be equivalent to about £22,500. A
Frederick d'or was a gold coin worth five thalers.]
Footnote
20 A church
situated at the beginning of the Steinweg.]
Footnote
21 It need
scarcely be said this refers to the excessively sentimental hero of
Goethe's Leiden des jungen Werthers.]
Pin-Up Weird Tales
Like many others whose pens have been employed in
authorship, the subject of this notice, Ernst Theodor Wilhelm2
Hoffmann, led a very chequered life, the various facts and incidents
of which throw a good deal of light upon his writings.
Hoffmann was born at Königsberg in Prussia on the
24th January, 1776.3
His parents were very ill-assorted, and led such an unhappy life
that they parted in young Ernst's third year. His father, who was in
the legal profession, was a man of considerable talent and of acute
intellect, but irregular and wild in his habits and given to
reprehensible practices. His mother, on the contrary, the daughter
of Consistorialrath Dörffer, had been trained up on the strictest
moral principles, and to habits of orderliness and propriety; and to
her regard for outward conformity to old-established forms and
conventional routine was added a weak and ailing condition of body,
which made her for the most part a confirmed invalid. When, in 1782,
the elder Hoffmann was promoted to the dignity of judge and
transferred to a criminal court at Insterburg (Prussia), Ernst was
taken into the house of his maternal grandmother; and his father
appears never to have troubled himself further either about him or
his elder brother, who afterwards took to evil ways. The brothers in
all probability never met again, though an unfinished letter, dated
10th July, 1817, found amongst Hoffmann's papers after his death,
was evidently written to his brother in reply to one received from
him requesting pecuniary assistance.
In his grandmother's house young Hoffmann spent
his boyhood and youth. The members of the household were four, the
grandmother, her son, her two daughters, of whom one was the boy's
invalid mother. The old lady, owing to her great age, was also
virtually an invalid; so that both she and her daughter scarcely
ever left their room, and hence their influence upon young Ernst's
education and training was practically nil. His uncle, however,
after an abortive attempt to follow the law, had settled down to a
quiet vegetative sort of existence, which he regulated strictly
according to fixed rules and methodical procedure; and these he
imposed more or less upon the household. Justizrath Otto (or
Ottchen, as his mother continued to call him to her life's end),
though acting as a dead weight upon his high-spirited, quick-witted
nephew's intellectual development, by his efforts to mould him to
his own course of life and his own unpliant habits of thought,
nevertheless planted certain seeds in the boy's mind which proved of
permanent service to him throughout all his subsequent career. To
this precise and order-loving uncle he owed his first thorough
grounding in the elements of music, and also his persevering
industry and sense of method and precision. As uncle and nephew
shared the same sitting-room and the same sleeping-chamber, and as
the former would never suffer any departure from the established
routine of things, the boy Ernst began not only to look forward to
the one afternoon a week when Otto went out to make his calls, but
also to study narrowly his uncle's habits, and to play upon his
weaknesses and turn them to his own advantage, so that by the time
he was twelve years old he was quite an adept at mystifying the
staid old gentleman. His aunt, an unmarried lady, was cheerful,
witty, and full of pleasant gaiety; she was the only one who
understood and appreciated her clever nephew; indeed she was so fond
of him, and humoured him to such an extent, that she is said to have
spoiled him. It was to her he poured out all his childish troubles
and all his boyish confidences and weaknesses. Her love he repaid
with faithful affection, and he has memorialised it in a touching
way in the character of "Tante Füsschen" in
Kater Murr (Pt. I.), where also other biographical details of
this period may be read. Of his poor mother, feeble in body and in
mind alike, Hoffmann only spoke unwillingly, but always with deep
respect mingled with sadness.
Two other persons must be mentioned as having
exercised a lasting influence upon his early life. One of these was
an old great-uncle, Justizrath Vöthöry, brother of both his
grandmothers, and a gentleman of Hungarian origin. This excellent
man was retired from all business, with the exception that he
continued to act as justiciary for the estates of certain well-tried
friends. He used to visit the various properties at stated seasons
of the year, and was always a welcome guest; for this "hero of olden
times in dressing-gown and slippers," as Wilibald Alexis called him,
was the V---- who figures so genially in
Das
Majorat ("The Entail"). The old gentleman once took his great-
nephew with him on one of these trips, and to it we are indebted for
this master-piece of Hoffmann. The other person who gave a bent to
young Ernst's mind was Dr. Wannowski, the head of the German
Reformed School in Königsberg, where the boy was sent in his sixth
or seventh year. Wannowski, who possessed the faculty of awakening
slumbering talent in his pupils, and attracting them to himself,
enjoyed the friendship and intercourse of Kant, Hippel (the elder),
Scheffner, Hamann, and others, and might perhaps lay claim to be
called a Prussian Dr. Arnold, owing to the many illustrious pupils
he turned out.
During the first seven years of his school-days,
young Hoffmann was in nowise distinguished above his school-fellows
either for industry or for quickness of parts. But when he reached
his thirteenth or fourteenth year, his taste for both music and
painting was awakened. His liking for these two arts was so genuine
and sincere, and consequently his progress in them so rapid, that he
came to be looked upon as a child-wonder. He would sit down at a
piano and play improvisations and other compositions of his own
creation, to the astonishment of all who heard him, for his
performances, though somewhat fantastic, were not wanting in talent
and originality, and his diminutive stature made him appear some
years younger than he really was. In drawing he early showed a
decided inclination for caricature, and in this his quickness of
perception and accuracy in reproduction proved of permanent service
to him. Later he endeavoured to improve himself both in theory and
in practice in higher styles also: in the former by diligent study
of Winckelmann, and in the latter by copying the models of the art
treasures of Herculaneum preserved in the Royal Library.
In his eleventh year Hoffmann made the
acquaintance of Theodor von Hippel, nephew of T. G. Hippel, author
of Die Lebensläufe in aufsteigender Linie,
a boy one month older than himself. The acquaintance ripened into a
warm fast friendship when the two boys recognised each other again
at the same school, and they continued faithful devoted friends
until the day of Hoffmann's death. What tended principally to knit
them together was the similarity and yet difference in their
bringing up and family relations. Both grew up without the society
of brothers or sisters or playfellows; but whilst Hoffmann was a son
of the town, Hippel's early days had been spent in the country. In
another respect, too, they presented a striking contrast in
behaviour; Hoffmann's chief delight was to mystify and tease his
uncle Otto, but Hippel was most scrupulous in paying to all the
proper meed of respect which he conceived he owed them. Once when
Hippel reproached his friend about his behaviour towards his uncle,
young Hoffmann replied, "But think what relatives fate has blessed
me with! If I only had a father and an uncle like yours such things
would never come into my head." This saying is significant for the
understanding of the early stages of Hoffmann's intellectual
development.
The bonds of inclination and natural liking were
drawn still closer by an idea of uncle Otto's. It was arranged that
young Hippel should spend the Wednesday afternoons (when the
Justizrath went out to make his round of visits amongst his
acquaintances), along with his friend in studying together,
principally the classics. And Saturday afternoons were also to be
devoted to the same duties whenever practicable. But, as might very
well be expected, the classics soon gave way to other books, such as
Rousseau's Confessions and Wiegleb's
Natürliche Magie;4
and these in turn were forced to yield to such pastimes as music,
drawing, mummeries, boyish games, masquerades, and even more
pretentious adventures out in the garden, such as mimic chivalric
contests, construction of underground passages, &c. The boys also
discovered common ground in their desire to cultivate their minds by
poetry and other reading. The last two years at school were most
beneficial and productive in shaping Hoffmann's mind; he acquired a
taste for classics and excited the attention of his teachers by his
artistic talents, his graphic powers of representation being
noticeable even at this early age. During this time also he
cultivated the acquaintance of the painter Matuszewski, whom he
introduces by name in his tale Der Artushof
("Arthur's Hall").
When sixteen or seventeen years old Hoffmann
conceived his first boyish affection, which only deserves mention as
giving occasion to a frequent utterance of his at this time, that
illustrates one of the most striking sides of his character. It
appears that the young lady who was the object of his fancied
passion either refused to notice his homage or else laughed it to
scorn, for he remarked to his friend with great warmth of feeling,
"Since I can't interest her with a pleasing exterior, I wish I were
a perfect image of ugliness, so that I might strike her attention,
and so make her at least look at me."
The beginning of Hoffmann's university career--he
matriculated at Königsberg on 27th March, 1792--offers nothing of
special interest. He decided to study jurisprudence. In making this
decision he was doubtless influenced by the family connections and
the traditional calling of the male members of the family. As
already remarked, his father, his uncle, and his great-uncle had all
followed the profession of law, and he had another uncle Dörffer in
the same profession, who occupied a position of some influence at
Glogau in Silesia. But it is also certain that he was determined to
this decision--it cannot be called choice--from the desire to make
himself independent of the family in Königsberg as soon as he could
contrive to do so, in order that he might free himself from the
shackles and galling unpleasantness of the untoward relations in
life to which he was there subject. But he was devoted heart and
soul to art--to music and painting. As the studies of the two
friends, Hoffmann and Hippel, were different, they necessarily did
not see so much of each other as previously; but once a week during
the winter months they devoted a night to mutual outpourings of the
things that were in them--the aspirations, hopes, dreams, and plans
for the future, &c., such as imaginative youths are wont to cherish
and indulge in. These meetings were strictly confined to their two
selves; no third was admitted. Their rules were one bottle of wine
for the whole evening, and the conversation to be carried on in
rhymed verses; and Hoffmann we find looking back upon these hours
with glad remembrance even in the full flush of his manhood and
fame: even on his last sad birthday, a few months before his death,
he dwells upon them with fond delight.
Whilst, however, devoting himself enthusiastically
to the pursuit of art, he did not neglect his more serious studies.
He made good and steady progress in the knowledge of law; and he
also gave lessons in music. It was whilst officiating in this latter
capacity that his heart was stirred by its first serious passion--a
passion which left an indelible impress upon all his future life. He
fell in love with a charming girl, who had a fine taste and true
sentiment in art matters, but who was separated from her admirer by
an impassable barrier of rank; but although her social position was
far above Hoffmann's, yet she returned warmly his pure and ardent
affection. Hoffmann, however, never disguised from himself the
hopelessness of his love; and the fact that it was so hopeless
embittered all the rest of his time in Königsberg, until he left it
in June, 1796, for a legal appointment at Great Glogau in Silesia.
As these years seem to have been mainly
instrumental in forming his character and shaping its outlines and
giving depth and strength to its chief features, it is desirable to
dwell for a moment upon the principal currents which at this time
poured their influences upon him. By nature of a genial and gay
temperament, gifted with an acute perception, which he had further
trained in sharpness and accuracy, endowed with no small share of
talent and with an ardent love for art, ambitious, vain in some
respects, full of high spirits, and with a keen sense of humour, and
not devoid of originality, he was daily chafed and galled in the
depressing atmosphere of his home relations. He felt how illogical
was the rigid methodicity, how unreasonable the arbitrary routine,
how absurd the restrictions and restraints of his uncle's household
regulations; he was eager to be quit of them, to turn his back upon
them; he was anxious to find a congenial field for his powers-~a
field where he could turn his accomplishments and genius to good
account. The only way in which he could hope to do so at present, at
least for some years to come, was by pursuing a legal career, and
law he had no inclination for. He says, in a letter to Hippel, dated
25th Nov., 1795, "If it depended upon myself alone I should be a
musical composer, and I have hopes that I could do something great
in that line; as for the one I have now chosen, I shall be a bungler
in it as long as I live." He gradually came to live upon a strained
and barely tolerable footing with his uncle, since as he grew older
his tricks and ironical behaviour towards little Otto assumed a more
pronounced character, and stirred up in the old gentleman's mind
feelings of suspicion against his unmanageable nephew. In these
circumstances we may easily discern the germs of a dissatisfaction
not only with his lot in life but also with himself.
Next came the fact of his hopeless love which has
just been mentioned. And another and no less potent cause which
tended to deepen and intensify this spirit of inward dissatisfaction
was the delay that occurred between his passing his entrance
examination into the legal profession in July, 1795, and his
appointment to a definite post of active duty in June, 1796. To be
compelled to wear out his independent, ambitious heart in forced
inactivity must have been galling in the extreme, especially when it
is remembered how eagerly he was longing to shake himself free from
the relations amidst which he had grown up, and his no less earnest
desire to get beyond the reach of the passion, or at any rate the
object of the passion, that was gnawing at his very heart-strings.
To an energetic spirit, longing for a useful sphere of activity,
hardly anything can be more fruitful as a source of unhappiness than
enforced idleness. And this sentiment Hoffmann gives frequent
utterance to in his letters at this period.
During these same months he cultivated his mind by
the perusal of the works of such writers as Jean Paul, Schiller, and
Goethe, the intellectual giants upon whom the eyes of Germany were
at that time fixed in wonder. But this course of reading, instead of
counteracting, rather encouraged a native leaning towards poetic
dreaming and sentimentality. In a letter to Hippel, dated 10th Jan.,
1796, he even says, "I cannot possibly demand that she [the lady he
loved] should love me to the same unmeasured extent of passionate
devotion that has turned my head--and this torments me.... I can
never leave her; she might weep for me for twenty-four hours and
then forget me--I should never forget her."
There was yet another cause or series of causes which co-operated
with those mentioned above to increase the distracted and agitated
condition of his heart. It has been already stated more than once
that he was a diligent student of music and painting. These formed
his recreation from the severe and dry study of law-books; but to
these two arts he now added the fascination of literary composition,
and wrote two novels, which he entitled
Cornaro and
Der Geheimnissvolle. The
former was rejected by a publisher, who had at first held out some
hopes of being able to accept it, on the ground that its author was
unknown. Besides this, the productions of his brush failed to sell.
Hence fresh sources of disappointment and vexation.
Through all this, however, even in his darkest
moods and most desperate moments, he was upheld by the feelings and
sentiments associated with his friendship for his unshaken friend
Hippel. To him he poured out all his troubles in a series of
letters,5
which gave a most graphic account of his mental condition at this
period. He led a very retired life, hardly seeing anybody; he calls
himself an anchorite, and states he was living apart from all the
world, seeking to find food for contemplation and reflection in his
own self. He also fostered, perhaps unconscious to himself, high
poetic aspirations, and also those extravagant dreams of friendship
which were so fashionable in the days of "Posa" and "Werther" and
Wieland; "his heart was never more susceptible to what is good," and
"his bosom never swelled with nobler thoughts," he says in one of
his letters. Then he goes on to describe the "flat, stale, and
unprofitable" surroundings in the midst of which he was confined.
"Round about me here it is icy cold, as in Nova Zembla, whilst I am
burning and being consumed by the fiery breath within me," he says
in another place. The violence of his inner conflict, of his
heart-torture and unhappiness, finds vent in a wild burst in the
letter before quoted of 10th Jan., 1796 (and also in others). He
says:--
"Many a time I think it's all over with me,
and if it were not for my uncle's little musical evenings. I
don't know what really would become of me.... Let me stay here
and eat my heart out.... Nothing can be made of me, that you
will see quite well.... I am ruined for everything; I have been
cheated in everything, and in a most exasperating way." ...
Again, "If I thought it possible that this frantic imp, my
fancy, at which I laugh right sardonically in my calmer moments,
could ever strain the fibres of my brain or could touch the
feelers of my emotional power, I should wish to cry with
Shakespeare's Falstaff, 'I would it were bedtime, and all
well;'" ... and "I am accused by the Santa Hermandad of my own
conscience." And in another letter he unbares the root of all
his troubles in the exclamation, "Oh! that I had a mother like
you."
Tearing himself away from his lady-love with a
violent wrench, Hoffmann left Königsberg in a sort of "dazed or
intoxicated state," his heart bleeding with the anguish of parting.
He arrived at Glogau on 15th June, and met with a very friendly
reception from his uncle and his uncle's family, which consisted of
his wife and a son and two daughters. But though they appear to have
exerted themselves to make the unhappy youth comfortable, his heart
and mind were too much occupied with the dear one he had left behind
for him to derive full benefit from their kind and well-meant
attentions. In the first letter he wrote to his friend from his new
home he says, "As Hamlet advised his mother, I have thrown away the
worser part of my heart to live the purer with the other half.... Am
I happy, you ask? I was never more unhappy." In other letters,
written some months later, he writes, "I am tired of railing against
Destiny and myself.... There are moments in which I despair of all
that is good, in which I feel it has been enjoined upon me to work
against everything that makes a vaunt of specious happiness." But he
took no manful and resolute steps to battle against his unhappy
state; he continued to correspond with the lady of his affections,
to gaze upon her portrait, to write to his friend about her, and to
dwell upon the past, the hours he had spent in her society. His
relatives, though treating him with all kindness, would seem to have
endeavoured to reason him out of his passion, since after he had
been some months in Glogau, he complains that those who had at first
been all love and sympathy were now cold and reserved towards him;
he was misunderstood; he was tormented with
ennui, and looked with contempt (partly amused and partly
bitter) upon the childish follies and fopperies, the trifling and
dandling with serious feelings and affections, of the folks amongst
whom he lived, who spent their time in "hunting after flies and
bonmots." During these months, however,
and during the course of the two years he spent in Silesia, he
penetrated deeper into the secret constitution of his own nature
than he ever did before or after: we find him confessing to his hot
passionate disposition and his quickness to take offence, and making
mention of the change that had taken place in him since the days of
his early friendship with Hippel--he was become hypochondriacal,
dissatisfied with himself, ready to kick against destiny, and prone
to assume a defiant attitude towards her and to blame her and call
her to account for her treatment of him; then again he was
melancholy and sad and sentimental, using in his letters expressions
built up after Jean Paul's style, and indulging in gushing
protestations of unalterable friendship. But then this was the age
of exaggerated friendships. His humour and joviality did not,
however, altogether desert him; he made himself a welcome guest of
an evening, and carried out amusing pranks with his merry cousins.
In the spring of 1797 Hoffmann accompanied his uncle on
a journey to Königsberg, where he again saw the young girl he loved,
but only to open up again all the anguish of the wounds that had
never yet fully healed. On his return to Glogau things continued
much as they were previous to his visit to his native town.
Of his two favourite arts, painting seems to have
occupied him more than music just at this period. Probably this was
due to the influence of the painter Molinari, whose acquaintance he
made before he had been six months in Glogau; and besides this man,
whom he styles a "child of misfortune" like himself, he also enjoyed
the society of Holbein, dramatic poet and actor; of Julius von Voss,
a well-known writer; and of the Countess Lichtenau, formerly
favourite of Frederick William II. of Prussia, but at that time a
sort of prisoner in the garrison at Glogau.6
The serious study of law he also prosecuted most assiduously, and to
such good purpose that in June, 1798, he was able to surmount
successfully his second or "referendary" examination. But for this
earnest and persevering labour there was a special incitement--a
particular cause. However contradictory it may sound, he was already
engaged in another love affair; this time with the lady who
afterwards became his wife, Maria Thekla Michaelina Rorer, of Polish
extraction. The beginning of his intimacy with her dates, strange to
say, from the early part of the year 1797, just previous to his
journey to Königsberg with his uncle. Soon after passing his
"referendary" examination, he was moved to the Supreme Court at
Berlin, as a consequence of the promotion of his uncle to be
geheimer Obertribunalsrath in the capital.
But before proceeding to Berlin to take up his residence there,
Hoffmann made a tour through the Silesian mountains, partly with an
eccentric friend of his uncle's and partly alone, finishing up the
trip by an inspection of the art treasures of Dresden, where he was
specially struck with works by Correggio and Battoni (mentioned in
Der Sandmann, &c.) and Raphael. One very
remarkable incident which happened to him during this trip must not
be passed over in silence. He was induced to play at faro at a
certain place where he stopped, and though he was perfectly
unskilled in the game, yet he had such an extraordinary run of good
luck, that he rose from the table with what was for him a small
fortune. Next morning the event made so deep and powerful an
impression upon his excitable temperament--his mind was so awed by
the magnitude of his winnings--that he vowed never to touch a card
again so long as he lived; and this vow he faithfully kept. In the
tale Spielerglück ("Gambler's Luck") we
find the incident recorded in the experiences of Baron Siegfried;
and in the third volume of the Serapionsbrüder
(Part VI.) he relates some of the very amusing eccentricities of his
travelling companion, which are too long to be given here.
We next find Hoffmann in Berlin, where, whilst the
impressions which he had brought back with him from his excursion
were still fresh upon his mind, he began to revel in the enjoyment
of the picture-galleries and other opportunities for cultivating his
taste in art. Here he saw really how little his own skill in
painting was developed; he threw away colours, and took up drawing
again like a beginner. His position in a professional regard now
took a more favourable turn. Freiherr von Schleinitz, the first
president of the court to which Hoffmann was attached, was a friend
of Hippel's; and both he and the genial good- hearted second
president Von Kircheisen noticed and encouraged his talents. In
consequence, he laboured at his duties and studies with such zeal
that he succeeded in passing his third and last examination, the
so-called examen rigorosum, and so
qualifying for the position of judge in the highest courts of
Prussia, in the summer of 1799. He was recommended for an
appointment as councillor in a provincial supreme court; but before
proceeding to the dignity of councillor it was obligatory upon him
to serve a probationary year as assessor.
He was accordingly sent down to the newly-acquired Polish provinces
(South Prussia, as they were called), to the town of Posen, where
work was plentiful and talented and energetic workers were in
demand. Before leaving the capital he had the pleasure of seeing his
friend Hippel, who spent two happy months with him, living the past
over again, visiting Potsdam, Dessau, Leipsic, Dresden, &c., and
discussing the journey to Italy, which through all his life Hoffmann
continued to dream of as an ideal plan to be some time consummated,
but which unfortunately never was consummated. Hippel accompanied
his friend to Posen.
The Polish provinces were fraught with great
danger for any young man who was not possessed of exceptional
firmness and sound moral principles. For a young lawyer, the work
was severe and exacting, but the emoluments were large. Time,
however, failed to allow of cultivating the higher sources of
enjoyment; hence all hastened to make the most of it by throwing
themselves into the lower. Drinking was a habit of the country; and
the drink that was drunk was of the strongest kinds, the fiery wines
of Hungary and strong liquors. There reigned also a deplorable
laxity of morals; and the graceful Polish women were very seductive.
That Hoffmann followed the example of his colleagues, and plunged
into the giddy whirlpool of miscalled pleasure, will perhaps appear
natural when we take into consideration the sources of discontent
that had for some time been fermenting in his spirit. Having been
submitted to the trammels of unreasonable constraint, it need not be
wondered at that his passionate restless nature should be enticed by
the temptations to which he was now so suddenly and unreservedly
exposed, that he forgot all his higher strivings and cast his better
purposes to the winds, and drank greedily of the pleasures of life
which his newly-won freedom brought in so easy and seductive a form
within his reach. He candidly states, "for some months a conflict of
feelings, principles, &c., which are directly contradictory the one
to the other, has been raging within me; I wished to stifle all
recollection, and become what schoolmasters, preachers, uncles, and
aunts call profligate." There was none in the circles which he
frequented to encourage him in his desire to reach out after better
things, to live himself into "the poetry of life," as Hitzig
expresses it; and hence he fell into the mire of demoralisation, and
his fall was the greater since he set about it with deliberate
intent.
He was at length so far carried away by the
delirious whirl into which he had been caught as to engage in a
piece of wanton folly that threw him back upon his career by some
years, just as he was about to plant his foot securely upon the path
leading to the summits of his profession. Beguiled by his striking
talent for caricature, he designed and executed a series of
sketches, satirising in an exquisitely witty and humorous style
various situations and characters and well-known relations of Posen
society. The inscriptions appended to the caricatures were not less
skilfully done than were the caricatures themselves. No rank of
society was spared, and hardly any person of consequence in the
town. One of his friends, who afterwards became his brother-in-law,
distributed the leaves at a masked ball in the disguise of an
Italian hawker of pictures, cleverly contriving to place each
individual sketch in the hands of the person to whom it would most
likely be most welcome. Hence for several minutes universal glee at
the excellent jest! But when they came to compare notes,
i.e., the presents they had received, the
merriment gave way to hot indignation. The author of the outrage was
very speedily guessed at, since there was only one person in Posen
with proved ability enough to wield the pencil so as to produce such
striking likenesses--unfortunate Hoffmann! That very same night it
is said that a man of high rank, General von Zastrow, deeply
incensed at several of the pieces in which he himself played a
ridiculous rôle, sent off an express
courier to Berlin with a report of the whole affair. The consequence
of the thoughtless trick was that Hoffmann's patent as councillor to
the government at Posen, which lay all ready for signing, was
exchanged for one appointing him to the town of Plock (on the R.
Vistula). Thither he went early in 1802, accompanied by his wife,
whose maiden name was "Rorer, or rather Trzczynska, a Poless by
birth, daughter of the former town-councillor T. of Posen,
twenty-two years old, of medium stature and good figure, with
dark-brown hair and dark blue eyes," as he himself describes her. He
had taken the step of marriage in face of the earnest dissuasion of
his uncle Otto, in the last months of his residence in Posen. But
previous to this, late in the autumn of 1801, he had paid another
visit to Königsberg, meeting on his return journey his friend
Hippel; and together they saw Elbing and Dantzic. To this latter
visit we owe the story of Der Artushof
("Arthur's Hall"), published in 1817. Hippel, be it remarked, was
disagreeably struck by the change in his friend: Hoffmann gave
himself up to an unhealthy degree, to wild and extravagant gaiety,
and disclosed a liking for what was low and lewd.
In Plock Hoffmann spent two years. This was a
quiet, stagnant place, where, according to his own account, he "was
buried alive," and "walked in a morass covered with low thorny
shrubs which lacerated his feet;" he "thought of Yorick and the
imprisoned starling;" and he should have given way to despair had
not the bitter experiences which he was made to drain to the lees
been sweetened by the affection of his dear good wife, who gave him
strength for the present and encouraged him to hope for the future.
Owing to the external circumstances in the midst of which he was
fixed, he again turned his attention seriously to music and
painting, and also to authorship. He wrote short essays, composed
masses, vespers, and sonatas, and translated Italian canzonets, &c.
Scherz, List, und Rache, a
Singspiel of Goethe's, he had already set
to music in Posen. During these two years he led a more strictly
domestic life, and spent more of his time out of the hours of
official duty in his own house, than he ever did afterwards. Here
also, as almost everywhere throughout his life he was zealous and
industrious in discharging the duties of his position. At length,
just as he was beginning to settle down and feel contented with his
lot in Plock, his friends in Berlin succeeded in securing his
removal (1804) to a better and more congenial sphere of activity in
Warsaw. After once more visiting Königsberg in February, 1804, and
then spending several days with Hippel on his estate at Leistenau
(province Marienwerder, East Prussia), he eventually proceeded to
his new post in Poland in the spring of that same year.
One illustrative and very characteristic anecdote
of this period deserves mention. In a letter to Hippel, dated
"Plock, 3rd October, 1803," Hoffmann writes, "My uncle in Berlin
will never do much more to recommend me, for he has become 'a grave
man,' as Mercutio says in Shakespeare;7
he died on the night of 24-25th September of inflammation of the
lungs." But in his diary of October 1 he writes, in allusion to the
same sad event, "My tears did not flow, nor did fear and grief draw
from me any loud lamentations; but the image of the man whom I loved
and honoured is constantly before my eyes; it never leaves me. The
whole day through my mind has been in a tumult; my nerves are so
excited that the least little noise makes me start." Thus he could
jest in the midst of pain; and it is a type of the man's character.
Warsaw, in notable contrast to other places in the
Polish provinces, possessed many things calculated to excite and
engage the attention of an active mind, of a mind so eager for
knowledge and so keenly alive to all that was especially interesting
and extraordinary as was Hoffmann's. The new scene of his labours
cannot be better described than in the words of Hitzig and of
Hoffmann himself. The former says the city had
"Streets of magnificent breadth, consisting of
palaces in the finest Italian style and of wooden huts which
threaten every moment to tumble together about the ears of their
indwellers; in these edifices Asiatic sumptuousness most closely
mingled with Greenland filth; a populace incessantly on the
stir, forming, as in a procession of maskers, the most startling
contrasts--long-bearded Jews, and monks clad in the garb of
every order, closely veiled nuns of the strictest rules and
unapproachable reserve, and troops of young Polesses dressed in
the gayest-coloured silk mantles conversing to each other across
the spacious squares, venerable old Polish gentlemen with
moustaches, caftan, pass (girdle),
sabre, and yellow or red boots, the coming generation in the
most matchless of Parisian fashions, Turks and Greeks, Russians,
Italians, and Frenchmen in a constantly varying crowd; besides
this an almost inconceivably tolerant police, who never
interfered to prevent any popular enjoyment, so that the streets
and squares were always swarming with 'punch-and-judy' shows,
dancing- bears, camels, and apes, whilst the occupants of the
most elegant equipage equally with the common porter stopped to
stare at them open- mouthed; further, a theatre conducted in the
national language, a thoroughly good French troupe, an Italian
opera, German comedians, who were at least ready to undertake
almost anything, 'routs' of a quite original but extremely
attractive kind, and resorts of pilgrims in the immediate
vicinity of the town--was there not something for an eye like
Hoffmann's to see and for a hand like Hoffmann's to sketch?"8
Thus far Hitzig. Hoffmann writes on May 14, 1804:--
"Yesterday ... I resolved to enjoy myself; I
threw away my deeds and sat down to the piano to compose a
sonata, but soon found myself in the situation of Hogarth's
Musicien enragé (Wrathful Musician).
Immediately underneath my window there arose certain differences
between three women selling meal, two wheelbarrow-men, and one
sailor; each of the parties pleaded its cause with a good deal
of violent demonstration before the tribunal of the hunchback,
who stands with a stall under the door-way below. Whilst this
was going on the bells of the parish church, of the Bennonites,
and of the Dominican church (all close to me) began to clang; in
the churchyard of the last named (right opposite to me) the
hopeful catechumens were hammering away on two old kettle-drums,
with which all the dogs of the neighbourhood, spurred by the
strong powers of instinct, joined with a chorus of barkings and
howlings--at that moment too Wambach and his musical band of
Janissaries trotted gaily past to the merry strains of their own
music--meeting them out of [another] street came a herd of
swine. A tremendous friction in the middle of the street--seven
swine were ridden over! Terrific squealing!--Oh!--oh! a
tutti invented for the torture of the
damned! Here I threw aside my pen and paper, pulled on my
top-boots, and ran away out of the wild mad tumult through the
Cracow suburb--through the 'new world'--down the hill. A sacred
Grove received me in its shade; I was in Lazienki.9
Ay, truly, the pleasant palace swims upon the mirror-like lake
like a virgin swan. Zephyrs come wafted through the blossoming
trees loaded with voluptuous delight. How pleasant to stroll
through the thickly foliaged walks! That is the place for an
amiable Epicurean to live in. What! why this man with the white
nose galloping10
along here through the dark-leaved trees must be the
'Commendatore' in Don Juan. Ah! John
Sobieski! Pink fecit-- male fecit. Oh!
what a state of things! He is riding over writhing prostrate
slaves, who are stretching up their withered arms to the rearing
horse--an ugly sight! What! is it possible? Great Sobieski--as a
Roman with wonçi11
has girt a Polish sabre about his waist, and it is made--of
wood--ridiculous!... You ask me, my dear friend, how I like
Warsaw. A motley world! too noisy--too wild--too harum-scarum--
everything topsy-turvey! Where can I find time to write, to
sketch, to compose music? The king ought to give up Lasienki to
me; there one could live nicely, if
you like!"12
The first few months of his residence in this "new
world," as it appeared to immigrants from the "old land" of Prussia,
Hoffmann spent in familiarising himself with the novelty and
strangeness of the place, in wondering at and admiring the motley
scenes which daily met his view; and doubtless his acute perceptive
faculties gleaned a valuable harvest of notes for use on future
occasions, both for his pencil and his pen. About the end of June he
formed the acquaintance of J. E. Hitzig, who came down to Warsaw
with the rank of assessor in the
administrative college in which Hoffmann held that of councillor.
The crust of formal courtesy and commonplaces was broken through by
Hitzig's pithy answer, to a question asking his opinion about some
newly-arrived colleague, that he was "a man in buckram." The
borrowed words of Falstaff banished Hoffmann's reserve, and caused
his sombre face to light up with joy and his tongue to pour out a
brilliant gush of talk. This new-made friend, who had previously
(1800, 1801) lived in Warsaw, where he began his career, introduced
Hoffmann into a pleasant and intellectual set of men, amongst whom
was Zacharias Werner, author of Söhne des
Thales, Das Kreuz an der Ostsee,13
&c. Hitzig had spent the interval from 1801 in Berlin, where he had
kept fully abreast of the newest productions in literature and art,
whilst Hoffmann had been living, partly a rude and riotous life, and
partly a solitary and monkish one, at Posen and Plock. Hence the one
had plenty to communicate and the other great eagerness to listen,
especially as the little he had begun to hear roused anew his
slumbering better feelings, and whetted with a keen edge his native
desire for self-improvement through art and literature.
In the following year, 1805, one of the Prussian
administrative officials, an enthusiast in music, conceived the idea
of establishing a club or society for the purpose of amusement and
mutual instruction in his favourite art, and for the purpose also of
training singers of both sexes. Hoffmann's interest was enlisted in
the scheme; and things proceeded at an energetic rate, the first
concert being successful beyond expectation. With this encouragement
the society was induced to go to work on a larger and more
pretentious scale. The Miniszeki Palace, injured by fire, was bought
for the seat of the new academy; and then Hoffmann threw himself
into the plans of the society with all his soul, working
indefatigably in preparing architectural designs, and later in
decorating the halls and corridors. During all the mild days of the
spring of 1806 he was never to be met with at home. If not in the
government office, he was invariably to be found perched up on a
high scaffolding in the new musical Ressource, painter's jacket on
and surrounded by a crowd of colour-pots, amongst which was sure to
be a bottle of Hungarian or Italian wine; there he painted and
thence he conversed with his friends below. If, on occasion, parties
requiring the services of Councillor Hoffmann came to look for him
at the new Ressource, whither they had been directed from his own
house, they were greatly surprised to see him drop nimbly to the
floor from before an elaborate wall-painting of ancient Egyptian
gods, mixed up with caricature figures and animal-like fragments of
modems (his friends with tails, wings, etc.), hastily wash his
hands, trot along in front of them to his place of business, and in
a brief space of time turn out some complicated legal instrument
with which it would defy the sharpest critic to find anything amiss.
So absorbed was he in this work, and in that of
directing at the evening performances and composing music for them,
that he hardly knew anything of the dark thunder-cloud of war that
was gathering in the West until the news of the fateful battle of
Jena came; but upon these music enthusiasts in Warsaw even this
intelligence made no perceptible impression. Their concerts and
practisings and meetings went on uninterruptedly just as before,
until one fine day the advanced guard of the Russian army rode into
the streets of the former Polish capital. Soon after the Russian
general had taken up his quarters in Praga, close to Warsaw, there
appeared on the other side of the town the pioneers of the great
army of Napoleon. The Prussians and Russians withdrew from the town.
Milhaud arrived with the main body of Murat's forces; in Napoleon's
name the Prussian Government was dissolved, and its officials were
superseded by native Poles. Hence Hoffmann was left without
employment. He and his colleagues divided the contents of the
treasury between them to prevent its falling into the hands of the
French; this secured them from want for the present. Careless about
the future, and revelling in the luxury of untrammelled freedom,
Hoffmann was now perfectly happy. The excitement was like rich wine
to his brilliant fancy; he never had enough of it. He spent all the
livelong day in running about seeing and hearing the many remarkable
things to be both seen and heard. And the little, restless,
energetic man was like quicksilver; he was everywhere. He specially
loved to frequent the theatres, where, before the curtain rose,
conversations might be heard carried on in ten or a dozen living
tongues at once. Pushing his way through the motley throng, he
penetrated to every part of the house, busy gathering all sorts of
rich observations, and storing up a most varied assortment of
experiences; and nothing escaped his falcon eye or remained
unnoticed by his keen perception. Many and exquisite were the
humorous anecdotes he picked up, the gestures he copied, the tricks
and eccentricities he caught, the extraordinary characters he
understood and fathomed at a glance; and these experiences he
afterwards retailed to his friends, to their unbounded delight.
But amid all the tumult of the French occupation
of the city, the evenings at the Musical Ressource still went on the
same as ever. Hoffmann indeed, in order to escape the burdens of
billeting as well as from motives of economy, took up his residence
in one of the attics of the Ressource, where, though somewhat
straitened for accommodation (for he had his wife, a niece aged
about twelve, and a little baby daughter with him), he was as happy
and contented as he well could be. He had the rich library of the
Ressource at command, and his own piano stood in one of its rooms;
and "that was all he wanted to make him forget the French and the
future." Early in 1807, he took advantage of a favourable
opportunity and sent his wife and the two children to her friends in
Posen; Hitzig also, and his family, and most other friends, left
Warsaw in March of that year: thus Hoffmann was left almost alone.
Soon afterwards he was attacked by a grave nervous disorder, but
successfully nursed through it by the one or two friends who still
remained in the city. On recovering, he wished to go to Vienna, with
the view of beginning an artistic career, and was only prevented
from carrying out his design by want of money to defray the expenses
of the journey. He was in great distress, and even began to despond,
until finally in the summer he contrived to get to Posen, and thence
to Berlin, where he arrived some time in July.
In Berlin, however, his prospects did not improve.
He failed to find employment for his talents: nobody could be got to
purchase his sketches or sit to him for a portrait; an attempt to
interest Iffland, the actor and dramatist, in him failed; and no
publisher could be found for his musical productions. Everything he
was willing to do came to nothing. Then came other misfortunes. His
ready-money, consisting of six Louis d'or,
was stolen from him; news reached him of the death of his
dearly-loved daughter Cecily when two years old, and of the illness
of his wife. He was on the point of despair, when it suddenly
occurred to him to advertise for the post of musical director in a
theatre. This had the desired effect of eventually securing him the
post he wished, in the theatre at Bamberg which was conducted under
the auspices of Count von Soden; but the engagement was not to
commence until October, 1808. The intervening months were months of
hard struggle for Hoffmann; he says he was almost in the extremities
of want, and should have lacked the bare necessaries of life had he
not succeeded in disposing of some minor productions in music and
painting for a couple of Louis d'or
received in advance. In the summer of 1808, he at last fetched his
wife from Posen, and then repaired to Bamberg (1st September).
To these years in Warsaw and Berlin belong three
operas and other minor musical pieces (including music for Werner's
tragedy Das Kreuz an der Ostsee), several
productions of his pencil and brush, but no literary works. Here at
the end of what may be termed the first act in E. T. W. Hoffmann's
chequered life we may pause a moment And the pause we may turn to
account by quoting a description of his personal appearance and some
peculiarities of habit.
"Hoffmann was very short of stature, of
yellowish complexion; and he had dark, almost black hair,
growing down low upon his forehead, gray eyes which had nothing
remarkable about them when they were at rest, but which assumed
an uncommonly humorous and cunning expression when he blinked
them, as he often did. His nose was thin and of the Roman type,
and his mouth tightly closed.
"Notwithstanding his agility, his body seemed
to be capable of endurance, for in contrast with his size his
breast was high and his shoulders broad.
"During the earlier part of his life his dress
was sufficiently elegant, without falling into foppery. The only
thing he set great and special store by was his whiskers, which
he carefully cut so as to form a point against the corners of
his mouth....
"What particularly struck the eye in his
exterior was his extraordinary vivacity of movement, which rose
to the highest pitch when he began to narrate anything. His
manners at receiving and parting from people-- repeated quick
short bendings of the neck without moving the head--had a good
deal that appeared to partake of the nature of caricature, and
might very readily have been taken for irony had not the
impression made by his singular gestures on such occasions been
softened by his cordial warmth of manner.
"He spoke with incredible quickness and in a
somewhat hoarse voice, so that he was always very difficult to
understand, especially during the last years of his life, when
he had lost some of his front teeth. When relating he always
spoke in quite short sentences; but when the conversation turned
upon art matters and he got enthusiastic--against which,
however, he seemed to guard himself--he employed long and finely
rounded periods. If he were reading any of his own compositions
aloud-- whether literary or official--he hurried over the
unimportant parts at such a rate that his listeners had hard
work to follow him; but those places which are called 'strong
touches' in a picture he emphasised with almost comic pathos; he
screwed up his mouth as he read, and looked round to see if his
listeners caught the points, so that he often upset both his own
and their equilibrium. Owing to this habit he was conscious that
he did not read well, and was always uncommonly pleased if
anybody else would relieve him of the task; this, however, was a
ticklish thing to do, especially in the case of MSS. copy, for
every word read falsely or every hesitating glance upon a word
to make sure what it was went like a knife to his heart, and
this effect he could not conceal. As a singer he was a fine
powerful tenor."14
To Bamberg Hoffmann went with high hopes of being able
to realise the dreams of his life; but his fond expectations were
doomed to the bitterest disappointment. His post he barely retained
two months. The theatre circumstances were on an exact par with
those described in Wilhelm Meister (videatur
the name Melina, &c.). Hoffmann's style of directing gave offence to
the Bamberg public on the very first evening; Count von Soden had
placed the management of the theatre in the hands of a certain Cuno,
whose affairs were so embarrassed that he never, or only seldom,
paid his officials, and finally became insolvent in February, 1809.
The disappointed director, embittered against the public by his
failure to recommend himself to them, supported himself and his wife
by composing the incidental music for the various pieces given at
the theatre, at a small monthly salary (of which he received but
little), and by giving music lessons in many of the best families of
the town. But the war approaching that district of Germany caused
many of these families to leave the place; and Hoffmann began to be
in embarrassed circumstances. Then he wrote an extremely droll
letter to Rochlitz, the editor of the
Musicalische Zeitung at Leipsic, was taken on as a contributor,
and continued to work for this magazine all the time he was in
Bamberg--producing mostly reviews and criticisms of musical works,
and writing fugitive pieces of musical interest. He also composed
several pieces of music of various descriptions independently of
those which he wrote for the theatre. Nor was his brush idle, for he
received several commissions for large family pictures. Thus things
went on until the summer of 1809, when a brighter cloud dawned upon
him for a time. One fine summer evening he made the acquaintance of
Kunz, a bookseller, publisher, and wine-dealer, at the
pleasure-resort of Bug (close to Bamberg) in a characteristic
manner. Kunz, an honest, jovial, good-natured giant, not lacking
humour and gifted with a remarkable talent for mimicry and
imitation, became little Hoffmann's fast friend--nay, his only real
friend--during the whole of the time the latter remained in Bamberg.
They were almost inseparable, associated in all amusements and
diversions: they spent many long winter evenings together in pouring
out their hearts and experiences to each other in mutual
confidences, and many long summer evenings at the "Rose," where
according to German custom a throng of visitors gathered to spend
the hours between closing business and going to bed. In July, 1810,
Holbein, Hoffmann's Glogau friend, came to undertake the management
of the Bamberg theatre. This, of course, could not fail to be of
advantage to Hoffmann, who, though he did not resume his post of
musical director, yet received a permanent engagement to act in a
multitude of departments: he was musical composer, architect,
scene-painter, part comptroller of the financial arrangements, and
director of the repertoire, &c. Under Holbein's management the
theatre rose to a flourishing level; classic operas and good plays15
were introduced with success, to which the versatile talents of
Hoffmann largely contributed. In the evenings the choice spirits of
Bamberg, mostly of theatrical and artistic connection, used to
assemble in the "Rose," where Hoffmann was the soul of the party,
his genius, wit, irony, and drollery being inexhaustible. Whilst
sending out flashes of sarcastic wit or gleams of exquisite humour,
he would clench a droll or clever description by quickly embodying
his thoughts and words in impromptu sketches, which were handed
round to the company. Music and singing, often by the actors and
actresses, also added to the entertainment of the evening. Mine host
of the "Rose" saw his company increased by some scores of visitors
when it was known that the inimitable sharp-eyed little
music-director was going to be present; and he used to send across
(Hoffmann lived the other side of the street only) during the day to
inquire if he intended being there in the evening. But on the whole,
Hoffmann was more generally feared than loved, or even respected, by
the main body of the townsfolk. His vanity was openly displayed; he
must lead the conversation, and everybody else must fall in with his
humour and his whim, or they might expect some marked rudeness from
his bitter tongue; and the fellow had a confoundedly sharp tongue,
and no less sharp a pen and pencil. The most wonderful things were
said about him in the town, and to those not intimate with him or
who did not know him personally, he was a man to be gazed at from a
distance; it was hardly safe to seek his acquaintance, although his
talk was said to be something extraordinary, and his gestures and
grimaces irresistibly diverting, yet he could also launch stinging
barbs and on occasion utter insulting sarcasms. In fact the outside
public were wont to regard him as invested with a nimbus of wonder,
or even as a sort of dæmonic being. Though these evenings were
beyond all conception gay and festive, Hoffmann seldom drank to
excess. Of course he drank a good deal: he had acquired the habit,
as remarked, at Posen, but he was not a common drinker, who drinks
for the drink's sake. It was the exhilaration it gave to his spirits
and the fire it gave to his mind and brilliant parts that he found
attractive in the habit.16
Excursions were also made into the country, particularly to Bug; and
here, as at Warsaw, the restless "quicksilver" man was everywhere.
In March, 1811, he was fortunate to be introduced
to Von Weber the musician, whose regard for his musical talents
continued undiminished until his death; and in the same month
Hoffmann paid a visit to Jean Paul at Bayreuth, and had from him a
fairly cordial reception. Towards the end of the year came the
intelligence that his uncle Otto Dörffer of Königsberg had died,
leaving him heir to his property. But the sum Hoffmann received
barely sufficed, if indeed it did suffice, to pay his debts. These
had been accumulated first by Hoffmann's own want of prudence--when
he had money in his purse he spent it merrily without a thought
about the morrow--and secondly, by the frequent illness of his wife,
the simple, homely, unassuming, good-natured creature with whom he
always lived on happy terms in spite of his own unpardonable
vagaries. Curiously enough, he used to labour under the odd delusion
that she was gifted with keen critical taste and was an intellectual
woman, though this was far from being the truth, according to the
express evidence of his bosom-friend Kunz.
Amongst Hoffmann's pupils was a young girl of
sixteen, Julia M----; this was his favourite pupil. For her he came
to conceive an overmastering passion; but whether it was more of the
imagination or of the heart it would appear difficult to decide with
absolute certainty. He did not know himself; "he preferred to remain
a riddle to himself, a riddle which he always dreaded to have
solved;" and he demanded from his friend Kunz that he should look
upon him as a "sacred inexplicable hieroglyph." The girl, who was
pretty and amiable, of good understanding, and of child-like
deportment towards her music-master, never for a single moment
dreamt of such a thing as his passion for her, and so of course she
never consciously encouraged it in any way. She did not even show
any signs of possessing a dreamy or poetic temperament, or seem to
be inclined to sentimentality, so that Hoffmann's extraordinary
infatuation can only be explained as a "fixed insanity." At any
rate, it powerfully affected his mind, and left an indelible trace
upon him almost down to his dying day. The day on which her
betrothal to a stupid, weak-minded man, a man in all respects
unworthy of her, was celebrated at the pleasure-resort of
Pommersfelden (four hours from Bamberg), was one which shook
Hoffmann's storm-tossed soul to its profoundest depths. He had hated
himself for his weakness, and yet could not or would not manfully
resolve to break through it. Now he was compelled to do so, and in a
way that was galling to the utmost degree. Her marriage turned out
an unhappy one; and eight years later, that is two years before his
death, hearing she was in great trouble, he sent many kind messages
to her through a mutual friend. These relations are detailed with
striking truth and fidelity in the
Nachricht
von den neusten Schicksalen des Hundes Berganza, published in
the Fantasiestücke in Callot's Manier
(1814-15). Perhaps, if we sufficiently compare the descriptions
which he gives of various heroines in his tales (all of which were
written after this time),17
and bear in mind the common characteristic running through them all,
namely, that he puts them before us more as individual pictures than
as developments of character, giving us purely objective sketches of
them after the manner of a painter--if we compare these descriptions
with what we know of Hoffmann's mind and character, his restless,
brilliant imagination, and the taint of sensuousness that helped to
mar its purity, his keen eye for beauty in form and colour, his
strong talent for seeing the things with which he came in contact
through an unmistakable veil of either love or hatred, we may
perhaps hazard the opinion, without risk of going far wrong, that it
was his imagination-- the imagination that made up such a large part
of the man--that was principally concerned in this remarkable
passion; if his heart was also touched, as it would undoubtedly
appear to have been, the road to it must no less undoubtedly have
been found through his imagination.
Early in 1812 Hoffmann was invited to a banquet at
the monastery of the Capuchins; and the visit made an extraordinary
impression upon him. All during dinner he could not keep his eyes
off a gray-haired old monk with a fine antique head, genuine Italian
face, strong-marked features, and long snow-white beard. On being
introduced to Father Cyrillus he asked him innumerable questions
about the secrets of monastic life, especially about those things of
which "we profane have only dim guesses, no clear conceptions." They
got into a poetic and exalted frame of mind, and rose just as it was
getting dusk to inspect the chapel and crypt, and other objects of
interest. In the crypt Hoffmann was powerfully agitated: he
reverently doffed his hat, his wine-heated face became terribly
pale, and he visibly showed that he was held in the thraldom of
supernatural awe. When Father Cyrillus went on to point out the spot
where his own mortal remains should rest, and to indulge in certain
pious exhortations to them (Hoffmann and Kunz) to shed a tear upon
his grave if they should come there again in after years, Hoffmann
lost control of himself; he stood like a marble pillar, his face and
eyes set, his hair standing on end, unable to utter a word.18
Then making a gesture upwards he hurried out of the crypt with hasty
uncertain steps. The impressions made upon him by this visit, and
the observations he gathered, he employed in the
Elixiere des Teufels and
Kater Murr (pt. II.), the meeting between
Kapellmeister Kreisler and Father
Hilarius, as well as the description of the monastery and its
situation in the latter, being invested with a fine poetic flavour.
The scene in the crypt points to another side of
Hoffmann's character, or rather personality, which hitherto has not
been alluded to. In fact, it does not seem, as far as can be
gathered from the biographical sources, that it began to be strongly
developed until the Bamberg period. We have seen how that early in
life he conceived a decided antipathy to the prosaic and the
commonplace, and his career up to this point furnishes abundant
evidence that he hated with a genuine hatred to keep in the ruts of
custom and conventionality, as if bound to do so because such was
prescribed by custom and conventionality. His sentiments he never
concealed, and his actions harmonised, almost without exception,
strictly with his sentiments; for one of his most striking and
instructive characteristics was the remarkable fearlessness which he
displayed no less in his actual conduct than in his habits of
thought. Affectation was far from him; thorough genuineness was
stamped upon all he did, showing unmistakably that it came direct
from the man himself. In fact it might be said, with special
significance, that his inner and his outer life--the in other cases
invisible life of the soul and the visible life in action--were
perfectly correlated, if not one and indivisibly the same. Being
then thus honest with himself,19
and detesting as he did all that was commonplace and wearying, fiat
and stale and dull, it is no wonder that he should tend to fall into
the opposite extreme, and should delight in the unusual, the
singular, the extraordinary. Further, when we remember his fine
imaginative powers, his inimitable humour, his vanity, his poetic
cast of mind, his bitterness against the public for not appreciating
his musical talents, and his consequent fits of fierce defiance and
satiric gloom, there is still less cause for wonder when we find
this propensity for seeking the uncommon and the marvellous
deepening and developing in time into an unconquerable penchant for
what was grotesque and eccentric, for what was fantastic, unnatural,
ghostly, and horrible. He loved to occupy his fancy most with the
extremes of human action, and to dive down into the most secret and
unexplored recesses of human nature to bring back thence some wild
startling trait that scarce any other imagination save his own would
have discovered. If he ever studied human nature at all, it was
along the border-lands of rationality; those misty shadowy states,
such as insanity, monomania, and hypochondriacal somnambulism, where
the soul hardly knows itself and loses touch of reality and almost
of self- consciousness. These and the like mysterious states of
being exercised a strange fascination upon his spirit. He was
constantly pursued by the idea that some secret and dreadful
calamity would happen to him, and his mind was often haunted by
images of awful form and by "doubles" of himself and others. He even
believed he saw visions with his own bodily eyes, and no
expostulations of his friends could drive this belief out of his
head. Not only when he was engaged in writing, but even in the midst
of an ordinary conversation, at supper, or whilst drinking a social
glass of wine or rum, he would suddenly exclaim, "See there--
there--that ugly little pigmy--see what capers he cuts. Pray don't
incommode yourself, my little man. You are at liberty to listen to
us as much as you please. Will you not approach nearer? You are
welcome." (Here, and occasionally, he would accompany his words with
violent muscular contortions of the face.) "Pray what will you take?
Oh! don't go, my good little fellow." All this, or similar
disconnected phrases, he used to utter with his eyes fixed and
riveted upon the place where he affirmed he saw the vision; and if
his word was doubted or he was laughed at as a stupid foolish man,
he would knit his brows and with great earnestness reiterate his
assertions and appeal to his wife to support him, saying, "I often
see them, don't I, Mischa" (Misza, Mischa, short form for the Polish
name Michaelina)?
This side of Hoffmann's individuality is not only
one of the most characteristic of him, it is necessary to grasp it
in order to understand his written works. These remarks will also
serve to make more intelligible the sensation aroused in Hoffmann
the evening he was at the Capuchin monastery. It is in the
Elixiere des Teufels that these noteworthy
traits find in most respects their fullest expression.
To return to the historical narrative. The story
Meister Martin and the unfinished
Der Feind owe their origin to a visit
which Hoffmann paid to Erlangen and Nuremberg in March, 1812. In the
same year he also devoted some attention to sport, and learned to
use a sportsman's rifle; but his imagination was always swifter than
his rifle-charge. A sitting sparrow he did
at length contrive to hit, but a flying one, or a hare, or even a
deer, he never could succeed in knocking over, that is to say the
real animals. Clods of earth and tufts of grass which his
imagination conjured into game he could sometimes hit, but no living
animal would ever be likely to approach near him, for his quick
restless movements and mercurial gestures were a standing impediment
to any game ever coming within shot of him unless actually driven
close past his "stand," and then his excitement either made him fire
too soon or else miss. Nevertheless, he enjoyed these sporting
excursions, in his own eccentric fashion, immensely.20
During the summer Hoffmann took up his residence
for four weeks in the picturesque ruins of the castle of Altenburg,
in the immediate neighbourhood of Bamberg, where, whilst living a
hermit's life in company with his spouse, he painted one of the
towers with frescoes illustrative of incidents in the life of Count
Adalbert von Babenberg, whose residence the castle had formerly
been. But he also occupied himself with literary schemes; it was in
this retreat that he wrote certain sketches designed to form parts
of a work which long occupied his mind, but which never came to
anything, namely, the Lichte Stunden eines
wahnsinnigen Musikers (Rational Intervals of a Crack-brained
Musician). In this he purposed to develop his opinions on the theory
of music and the principles of harmony. The fragments were
afterwards revised and appeared as the
Kreisleriana in the
Fantasiestücke.
In the next month, July, his star of adversity was
again to be in the ascendant. Holbein severed his connection with
the theatre, and Hoffmann lost his fixed income. Things grew darker
and darker for him, until he was almost reduced to actual want; at
any rate he came to be in very embarrassed circumstances. Singular
to say, however, under all this cloud of adversity he maintained a
shining face and a light heart behind it. This was peculiar to him;
Rochlitz says "he belonged to the large class of men who can bear
ill fortune better than good fortune." During this time of distress,
which was a repetition of his dark days in Berlin in 1807-8, he
displayed a remarkable activity in his usual pursuits. His criticism
of Don Juan, and exposition of the problem
of Mozart's great opera, for which Hoffmann cherished a profound and
almost extravagant admiration, owes its origin to this period.21
An anecdote in relation to this will also illustrate his true
passionate admiration of art. Kunz lost a child, for which he
grieved sadly; two days afterwards Hoffmann advised him to go with
him to see Don Juan at night, declaring it
would assuage his grief and soothe and comfort his heart. Of course
Kunz looked upon the idea as preposterous. Nevertheless Hoffmann
would not be denied; he exerted all his arts of persuasion to induce
his friend to go. At last Kunz did go; on the way to the theatre
Hoffmann discoursed of the opera in such a sensible, acute, and
touching way, and so poetically and with especial reference to his
friend's loss, and afterwards in the theatre he expressed his
sympathy in such kind and delicate lines, whilst tears of genuine
feeling stood in his eyes, that his friend was obliged to admit,
"This music of the spheres, which I had heard at least a dozen times
before, exerted a greater power over me than all the dictates of
reason or the consolations of friends."
In February, 1813, the struggling ex-director
received an altogether unexpected letter from Joseph Seconda,
offering him the post of music- director to his opera company at
Dresden; and on April 21, 1813, Hoffmann's residence in Bamberg,
which may be regarded as the turning- point in his life, came to an
end. Four days later he arrived at his destination without
encountering any very serious adventure on the road, although it
swarmed most of the way with scouting Bashkirs, Cossacks, Prussian
hussars, and Russian dragoons, and was thickly lined with heavy guns
and munition-waggons,--massing for the battle of Lützen (May 2). On
arriving at Dresden Hoffmann found quite unexpectedly his friend
Hippel, and with him spent several right happy days. Then he was
summoned by Seconda to join him at Leipsic, for Seconda seems to
have spent his time between this town and Dresden. But the journey
was postponed until May 20th, owing to the proximity of the
contending forces and the consequent unsettled state of the country.
In the intervals several sharp skirmishes between the Russians and
French took place in and close around Dresden. As might be expected,
Hoffmann could not check his irrepressible desire to be in the thick
of the excitement; on May 9th he was standing close beside one of
the town gates when a ball struck against a wall near him and in the
rebound hit him on the shin; he quietly stooped down and picked up
the flattened "coin," and preserved it as a memento, "being quite
satisfied with that one memento, unselfishly not asking for any
more," as he wrote. Even during these troubled restless days he
worked at the Fantasiestücke. On the way
to Leipsic happened a startling occurrence, which probably served as
the prototype for the catastrophe at the end of
Das Majorat (The Entail). The coach was
upset and a newly married Countess was taken up dead; Hoffmann's own
wife also received a severe wound on the head. Seconda's troupe only
remained in Leipsic a few weeks longer; permission was given him to
play in the Court theatre at Dresden; hence on 24th June we find
Hoffmann on his way back to Dresden, and deriving in his
characteristic fashion much amusement from a waggon heavily laden
with theatrical appurtenances, living and non-living, something in
the style of the carriage scene in
Die Fermate.
The return, however, was a return into the very
hottest scene of the struggle between the Allies and Napoleon. On
August 26th and 27th the fight raged furiously around the walls of
Dresden; the quarter in which Hoffmann was living was shelled; the
people in the house "bivouaced" under the stone stairs, trembling
with fear and anxiety. Hoffmann, however, could not bear to hide
away, so he slipped out by a back door and went to join one of his
theatrical friends. Looking out of his window they watched the
damage done by the shells, and saw one burst in the market-place
below, crushing a soldier's head, tearing open the body of a passing
citizen, and seriously wounding three other people not far away.
Keller the actor, in his start of apprehension, let his glass fall
out of his hand; "I," says Hoffmann, "drank mine empty and cried,
'What is life? Not able to bear a little bit of hot iron? Poor weak
human nature! God give me calmness and courage in the midst of
danger! We can get over it all better so.'" Then he returned to the
anxious party under the steps, taking them wine and rum--the latter
was Hoffmann's favourite drink. His presence brought the unfailing
good spirits and humour which hardly ever deserted him, even under
the darkest cloud of adversity. On the 29th he visited the
battle-field and saw its cruel sights and its horrors. But other
horrors were in store for the inhabitants of the city; for the next
few weeks Dresden was besieged, and her citizens suffered from
famine and pestilence and all the other usual terrible concomitants
of a siege.
Hoffmann's literary activity through all these
weeks of turmoil was something astonishing. Whilst the thunders of
cannon were making "the ground to tremble and the windows to shake,"
and the shells were bursting around him and the sharp crack and dull
ping of bullets were incessantly striking upon his ear, this
extraordinary man sat unconcerned amidst it all, absorbed in
literary or musical composition, either writing his
Goldener Topf (or
Der Dichter und der Componist or
Der
Magnetiseur) or working out his opera
Undine, which was begun in Bamberg in 1812. Even when suffering
from the dysentery which raged in the place, his intellectual
activity went on without being impaired. In a letter to Kunz of date
Sept 8th of this year he writes, "I am, as you will observe,
unwearied in cultivating the fine arts, and if to-morrow or the day
after I am not blown into the air by a Prussian or Russian or
Austrian shell, you will find me fat and well-favoured from art
enjoyments of every sort."
It was through Kunz's intervention that the
Introduction prefixed to the Fantasiestücke
was obtained from Jean Paul, and that against Hoffmann's own wish,
for all introductions except those which stand as
prolegomena before a scientific work he
hated--when a well-known writer prefixed an introduction before the
work of an unknown as a sort of attestation, it seemed to him like
"an incendiary letter which the young author takes into his hand in
order to go and beg for applause with it." Another short passage
from one of his letters to Kunz of this same summer may here be
quoted as illustrating a trait in his character:--
"So far about business; and now the earnest
request that you will keep in mind and constantly before your
eyes who and what I am, and let our business even be inspired
with that spirit of cheerfulness and good- humour which always
marked our intercourse with each other, and even in money
matters prevented the dead, stiff, frosty mercantile style from
coming to the surface. I am sure it was quite foreign to both of
us, and could only excite in us such fear as we feel when set
upon by an angry 'wauwau,' at which afterwards we can only laugh
to each other."
This unwillingness, nay almost repugnance to look at
things from their serious side, was quite characteristic of him.
"But these are odiosa" was a frequent
phrase in his mouth.
On 9th December Seconda and his opera company once
more repaired to Leipsic, and Hoffmann of course along with them.
There on New Year's Day he was struck down by a severe attack of
inflammation in the chest, aggravated by gout, in consequence of a
violent cold caught in the theatre; the case was so severe and grave
that his life was at times in danger. "Podagrists are generally
visited by an especial humour-- brilliant fancies; this comforts me;
I experience the truth of it, since often when I feel the sharpest
pangs I write con amore," he states in a
letter to Kunz (24th March). And during his illness one of his
friends "found him in one of the meanest rooms in one of the meanest
inns, sitting on a wretched bed, but ill protected against the cold,
and with his feet drawn up by gout." A board was lying in front of
him, and he appeared to be busy doing something upon it. "God bless
me!" exclaimed his friend, "whatever are you doing?" "Making
caricatures," replied Hoffmann laughing--"caricatures of the cursed
Frenchman; I am inventing them, drawing them, and colouring them."
He also wrote about this time the Vision auf
dem Schlachtfelde bei Dresden and other pieces, and finished his
Undine; further, whilst in this
distressing condition, he began the
Elixiere
des Teufels, the first volume of which was completed in less
than a month. This work he intended to be an illustration, or
illustrative exposition of his own notions, of "a man who even at
his birth was an object of contention between the powers divine and
demoniacal, and his tortuous wonderful life was intended to exhibit
in a clear and distinct light those secret and mysterious
combinations between the human spirit and all those Higher
Principles which are concealed in all Nature, and only flash out now
and again--and these flashes we call chance." That he succeeded in
his purpose cannot be maintained. His own individuality was too
strong for him: he failed to handle his subject from a sufficiently
independent standpoint. He was not the artist creating a work that
was quite outside himself; he was rather the silk-worm spinning his
entangling threads round about himself. The book can scarcely be
read without shuddering; the dark maze of humane motion and human
weakness-- a mingling of poetry, sentimentality, rollicking humour,
wild remorse, stern gloom, blind delusion, dark insanity, over all
which is thrown a veil steeped in the fantastic and the
horrible--all this detracts from the artistic merits of the work,
but invests it with a corresponding proportion of interest as a
revealer of some of the deepest secrets and hidden phases of the
human soul, if one only has the courage to wade through it. The
dreamy mystifications and the wild insanity and mystic passion of
Brother Medardus are not unrelieved by scenes and characters which
bear the stamp of bright poetic beauty and rich comic humour (e.g.,
the character of the Abbess of the Cistercian convent, the
jäger, the description of the monastery,
the scenes with Mr. Ewson and Belcampo
alias
Schönfeld).
For some reason which cannot be quite made out for
certain, either in consequence of his continued illness or because
of a quarrel with Seconda, Hoffmann found himself once more adrift
in the world without an anchor to hold fast by in February, 1814. In
striking contrast with his treatment by the Bamberg public, his
talents as director whilst with Seconda's company were fully and
adequately appreciated, both by the artistes and the orchestra, as
well as by the general public. This may have been due to two causes;
first, the actors and actresses were not embarrassed by his
directing from the pianoforte instead of with the violin as those in
Bamberg were, and in the second place his criticisms and essays on
musical subjects in Rochlitz's Musicalische
Zeitung had gained him a certain reputation as an authority in
musical matters. After having refused the offer of a post as
music-director in his native city of Königsberg in February (1814),
he was agreeably surprised by Hippel's promise to secure his return
into official life. Accordingly towards the end of September in that
same year he set out for Berlin.
Here ends what may be termed the second act of
this very unsettled, eventful life. That this wandering aside from
the career he first started upon--viz., that of law and public life
to tread the thorny precarious path of art was fraught with greater
consequences than can be estimated upon the unfortunate man's
character, will be evident from what has been already stated. These
dark years were those mainly instrumental in stifling the good germs
that had once been in him, and yet more did they result in
encouraging and bringing out prominently all his less praiseworthy
qualities. As his works and his life are so intimately interwoven,
and as his works were nearly all written subsequent to this
disastrous period, it seemed desirable to dwell somewhat upon the
events and circumstances of the earlier part of his life. With the
view of showing that Hoffmann himself fully understood the nature
and tendency of his existence in Bamberg, the following passages are
quoted from a letter written to Dr. Speyer in that town in July,
1813:--
"I felt in my own mind perfectly convinced
that I must get out of Bamberg as soon as possible if I was not
to be ruined altogether. Call vividly to mind what my life in
Bamberg was from the first moment of my arrival, and you will
allow that everything co-operated like an hostile demoniacal
power to thrust me forcibly from the path I had chosen, or
rather from art, to which I had devoted my entire existence, my
very self with all my activities and energies. My position under
Cuno, and even all those unbargained-for duties which were
thrown upon me by Holbein, notwithstanding their many seductive
attractions, but above all those scenes with----which I shall
never forget and never overcome, the old man's miserable stupid
platitudes, which yet in another respect had a pernicious
influence, those wretched, terrible scenes with----and last of
all with----, whom I always thought a parvenu ill-bred imp,--in
a word, everything that went against all effort and doing and
work in the higher life, in which a man raises himself on alert
wing above the stinking morass of his miserable crust-begging
life, engendered within me an inward dissension--an inward
strife, which much sooner than any external commotion around me
would have caused me to perish. Every harsh and undeserved
indignity I had to suffer only increased my secret rancour, and
whilst accustoming myself more and more to wine as a stimulant
and so stirring up the fire to make it bum more merrily, I
heeded not that this was the only way by which good could come
out of the ruinous evil. In these few words, in this brief
statement, I hope you will find the key to many things which may
have appeared to you contradictory, if not enigmatical But
transeant cum ceteris."22
Again, it can scarcely be doubted that we have a
description of his own state when he writes in the
Elixiere (Part II.), "I am what I appear
to be, and do not appear as what I really am; to myself an
unsolvable riddle, I am at variance with my own self."
The change of residence to Berlin did little to
improve Hoffmann's circumstances. During the first ten months he
was, according to the conditions imposed, labouring to make himself
acquainted with the changes that had taken place in legal procedure,
and to fit himself for entering the service of the state again and
resuming his interrupted career; but he received no compensation for
his pains; he had to support himself as best he could by the fruits
of his pen. On July 1, 1815, he was appointed to a clerkship in the
department of the Minister of Justice, which post he exchanged on
1st May, 1816, for that of Councillor in the Supreme Court, being
also restored to all his rights of seniority as though no break had
ever taken place in his official career. The duties attaching to
this office he continued to discharge with his accustomed diligence
and skill until promoted in the autumn of 1821 to be a member of the
Senate of Higher Appeal in the same court. Notwithstanding his sad
and disappointing experiences, and the tempestuous times of his
"martyr years" at Bamberg, he was not yet disgusted with the life of
an artist. His hopes were not yet alienated from the calling that
hovered before his mind as an ideal for so many years. Whilst
battling, with somewhat less of reckless high spirits and humour,
against the embarrassments and pecuniary difficulties which he had
to encounter during these ten months, he was also dreaming of an
appointment as Kapellmeister (orchestral
director) or as musical composer to a theatre. He says upon this
point in a letter to Hippel, of date March 12, 1815, "I cannot
anyhow cease to interest myself in art; and had I not to care for a
dearly beloved wife, and were it not my duty to try and procure her
a comfortable life after what she has gone through with me, I would
rather become a music schoolmaster again than let myself be stamped
in the juristic fulling-mill."23
After more than one disappointment in his efforts to secure
permanent and remunerative employment, in which efforts he was
assisted by his influential friend Hippel, he became a clerk, as
already stated, in the department of the Minister of Justice.
In his social relations Hoffmann was more
fortunate. He now enjoyed the close companionship of Hitzig again,
and through Hitzig was introduced into a select circle which counted
amongst its members such men as Fouqué (author of
Undine), Chamisso (of
Peter Schlemihl fame), Contessa, Koreff,
Tieck, Bernhardi, Devrient, and others. The harassing tumultuous
days he had passed through during the last eight years had now begun
to make him gentler and more modest; his character was more
tempered, and his behaviour more subdued. His good-nature too took
such a prominent place in the qualities he displayed that Hitzig's
children were quite delighted with their father's newly arrived
friend; for them Hoffmann wrote the pleasant little fairy tale
Nussknacker und Mäusekönig (Nutcracker and
the King of the Mice). Before the end of 1815 he had finished the
second part of the Elixiere des Teufels,
to which he himself attached no value, since its connection with the
first part was broken; its author's ideas had got into another
track; feelings and circumstances were changed. Still less than
Schiller with Don Carlos. did Hoffmann
succeed in making an artificial junction between the two parts of
his work atone for its breach of artistic unity; he even said later
of the first part, "I ought not to have had it printed." Besides
this second part of the Elixiere, he also
wrote the concluding pieces of the
Fantasiestücke, namely,
Die Abenteuer der
Sylvesternacht, which owes its existence to Chamisso's
Peter Schlemihl and to Chamisso himself,
who is portrayed in the work; and also
Die
Correspondenz des Kapellmeisters Kreisler mit dem Baron Wallborn,
that is Hoffmann himself and Baron von Fouqué. With the latter
Hoffmann spent a happy fortnight in 1815 at his seat of Nennhausen
near Rathenow; Hitzig was also of the party. In August of the
following year the opera Undine was put
upon the stage. Though Fouqué's libretto did not pass without some
adverse criticism, all voices were unanimous in praise of the music.
Von Weber the musician especially expressed himself warmly in
admiration of it, affirming that it was "one of the most talented
productions of recent times;" and he especially singled out for
attention its truth, its smooth-flowing melodies, and its
instrumentation; it was "in truth
one
gush" of music. The opera was repeated more than a score of times,
when unfortunately the theatre was burnt down, and Hoffmann, who
lived immediately adjoining it, was almost burnt out of house and
home at the same time.
Through the success of this opera as well as
through that of his Fantasiestücke,
Hoffmann found himself celebrated. He was invited as the hero of the
evening to the fashionable tea circles of Berlin, where ignorant or
half-educated dilettanti affected an
interest in art matters, that was over-strained and wanting in
sincerity when it was not ridiculous. For what was there the man
could not do? He wrote books about which all Germany was talking, he
could improvise on the pianoforte, compose operas, sketch
caricatures, and streams of wit gushed from him so soon as he opened
his mouth. The homage showered upon him at these gatherings
flattered Hoffmann's vanity for a time, but he soon saw the motives
for which he was asked to be present--to amuse the guests with his
wit, to accompany the daughter or lady of the house on the piano, to
discuss art matters in a becoming way now with an old grandmother,
now with a grave professor, to tell diverting anecdotes, to tickle
the lazy minds of those who listened with some spicy satire upon
their enemies--in fact to be made a useful show of. Quickly
fathoming these motives, Hoffmann proved himself readily equal to
the occasion: as soon as he began to get bored, which very
frequently was the case, he made the most hideous grimaces, and when
he saw the company were preparing to draw something from him by way
of criticism which they could carry further and perhaps repeat again
as springing from their own acute judgment, he began to talk the
most arrant nonsense he could think of, or to fire off some of his
stinging sarcasms steeped in the bitterness of gall, till there were
none but blank and embarrassed faces around him--everybody thinking
the man was mad; but he went away delighted at the consternation he
had been instrumental in causing. The givers of fashionable teas
soon ceased to invite Hoffmann to their entertainments, but they had
already sufficiently sown the seeds of fresh mischief in him.
To have more money in his pockets than he just
required for the immediate wants of the moment was always fatal to
him, and no less so was the excitement attendant upon the giddy
whirl of pleasure and social popularity, or what stood for such.
These were rocks of danger upon which he always struck. The former
led him to indulge in his reprehensible habit of drinking, and the
latter soon made him upset all the systems of order and regulation.
Day he turned into night and night into day. He shunned for the most
part the society of Hitzig and his circle of friends, with their
stimulating discussions that cultivated the mind whilst unfolding
and developing the feelings, and frequented a low wine-shop and the
common coarse company that was to be met with there. Hence during
nearly all the rest of his life, that is, from 1816 to 1821, he
spent his mornings in the discharge of his official duties at the
Supreme Court (two mornings a week, Monday and Thursday), or in
writing; the afternoons he generally slept, or in summer took a
walk; and the evenings and nights always found him in the wine-shop
of his choice; and he never liked to leave it until morning came,
nor did any other engagements prevent him from putting in an
appearance at his habitual haunt, even though it were past midnight
before he were free. As already remarked, however, it was not to sit
and drink like a sot that he gave way to this degrading habit, but
to get himself "exalted" as he called it, and then when he was duly
"exalted" came the firework display of wit and glowing fancy, going
on hour after hour without rest or interruption for the space of
five or six hours at once. If his tongue was not the medium through
which he discharged the creations of his teeming imagination, his
eagle eye was spying out all that was ridiculous or strikingly
extraordinary, or even what was possessed of a touch of pathos or
deep feeling, or he employed his hand in sketching and drawing
inimitable caricatures. He never sat idle and silent, and drank
steadily and stolidly as so many confirmed drinkers do. Hitzig, who
was deeply grieved at this downward course of his friend and at the
estrangement it had brought about between them, contrived to draw
him away from his demoralising companions of the wine-shop for at
least one night a week. On that evening there was a small gathering
at Hoffmann's house, moderation being strictly enjoined as one of
the chief regulations of the meeting. This small circle, which
consisted of Hoffmann, Hitzig, Contessa, and Koreff,24
and an occasional friend or two whom one of them introduced, called
itself "The Serapion Brethren," this title being adopted from the
fact that the first meeting was held on the night of the anniversary
of that saint, according to Frau Hoffmann's Polish almanac. It is
interesting to remark that amongst these occasional guests figures
the great Danish poet Oehlenschläger in the year 1816. In a letter
written to Hoffmann on March 26th, 1821, recommending a young
fellow-countryman to him, Oehlenschläger says, "Dip him also a
little in the magic sea of your humour, respected friend, and teach
him how a man can be a philosopher and seer of the world under the
ironical mantle of the mad-house, and what is more an amiable man as
well;" and he subscribes himself, "A. Oehlenschläger, Serapion
Brother."
In 1817 was published the collection of tales
called Die Nachtstücke, embracing
Der Sandmann (The Sand-man) and
Das Majorat (The Entail), which reproduce
personages and experiences belonging to the years in Königsberg;
Die Jesuitenkirche and
Das steinerne Herz, going back to his life
in Glogau; Das Gelübde, built upon a story
related by his wife as connected with her native town of Posen;
Das Sanctus, which was suggested by an
incident in Berlin soon after Hoffmann's arrival there; and
das öde Haus, this last due to the way in
which he was incessantly haunted by the appearance of a closed house
in the Unter den Linden. These were mostly
written in 1816 and 1817; and to them he added
Ignas Denner, which possesses some merit, but is of too gloomy
and darkly unpleasant a cast to be attractive to English readers; it
was written during the first days in Dresden, just after his
emancipation from the Bamberg thraldom. Whilst in it he gives free
rein to sombre melancholy, and dips his pen in "midnight blackness,"
in Berganza, written about the same time,
he has poured out the cynical bitterness and scathing scorn which
was then undoubtedly gnawing at his heart.
Der
Sandmann, though embodying reminiscences of its author's youth,
also contains material derived from an incident which took place
during a visit of Hoffmann's to Fouqué's country-seat near Ratenow,
and Nathanael was recognised by Fouqué as meant for himself.
Das Majorat is, as already stated, a
lasting memorial to his old great-uncle, Vöthöry; the moral backbone
of the story--the evil destiny attaching to the successors of a man
whose ambition aimed at founding a powerful family by an act of
injustice to his youngest son--reminds the reader forcibly of the
purpose that runs through Hawthorne's
House
with the Seven Gables. Of the in many respects admirable story
Das Gelübde-- it is to be regretted that
it is marred by the dangerous nature of the subject;25
it is else poetically treated and invested with a spirit of weird
mysticism that would have made it rank higher than what it does. The
others in the collection are of lesser merit.
The next year 1818 saw no important work from
Hoffmann's pen; but in 1819 appeared
Die
seltsame Leiden eines Theaterdirekters, a book written in the
form of a dialogue, which was due to the example of his favourite,
Diderot's "Rameau's Nephew" (by Goethe), and which conveys a
tolerably faithful account of Hoffmann's experiences in the capacity
indicated whilst in the town on the Regnitz, and indeed is useful as
illustrating the condition of the German stage generally at that
period. This was followed by a kind of fairy tale,
Klein Zaches genannt Zinnober; as this
book was generally believed to be a local satire upon persons and
circumstances well known, it entailed many severe strictures and
much unpleasantness upon its writer. The truth about it seems to be
this: the idea--that of a sort of ugly kobold of the Handy Andy
type--was suggested by a sudden fancy during an attack of fever, and
in a moment of semi-delirium. On recovering his health again,
Hoffmann set to work in his impetuous and hasty way, and worked out
the idea in probably less than a fortnight. Similarly his
Meister Floh, one of the last and weakest
caricatures he wrote, was likely to have entailed disagreeable
consequences upon him, had not his last illness come before any
authoritative steps could be taken. For he had made use of incidents
which came to his knowledge in the official discharge of his duties,
and which were of such a character that they ought to have been
guarded as inviolable secrets; and he further employed certain
phrases which he took from confidential papers that likewise came
into his hands in consequence of his public position. In extenuation
of his fault, or perhaps in explanation of it, be it remarked that
his conduct does not appear to have been actuated by premeditated or
deliberate malice, but to have sprung solely from his recklessness
and want of prudence: the ridiculous appealed to his sense of humour
so irresistibly that nothing was sacred against it, and so nothing
was safe from it.
In the summer of 1819 Hoffmann was ordered by his
physician to visit the Silesian baths; and he derived excellent
benefit from the prescription, coming home stronger and in a more
healthful frame of mind than his friends had seen him for a long
time. Soon after his return he was appointed on the commission
selected to inquire into those secret societies and other suspicious
political organisations which were particularly active about this
time (Burschenschaften,
Landsmannschaften in their political
aspect). Towards the end of the year he published the first two
volumes of the Serapionsbrüder, the third
volume following in 1820 and the fourth in 1821. These volumes
contain all his tales that had appeared in various magazines and
serial publications, together with others now first published, and
are linked together by a running commentary, or rather they are set
into it as into a framework; the Serapion Society are represented as
meeting at stated intervals, when one or more of the members relate
a tale. The discussions which precede and follow the tales are full
of sage remarks about art and art-matters and other ripe practical
wisdom, and contain perhaps more matured thought than anything else
that proceeded from Hoffmann's pen. Of these numerous stories the
best have been selected for translation in these two volumes,
namely, Der Artushof (Arthur's Hall),
Die Fermate (The Fermata),
Doge und Dogaresse (Doge and Dogess),
Meister Martin der Küfner und seine Gesellen
(Master Martin the Cooper and his Journey men ),
Das Fräulein von Scudéri (Mademoiselle de
Scudéri), Spieler Glück (Gambler's Luck),
and Signor Formica. The remaining twelve
tales call for no special mention, except perhaps
Nussknacker, which has been already
alluded to, Das fremde Kind, a curious
mixture of reality and fairyland, and
Der
Zusammenhang der Dinge, which is not devoid of interest. Several
of the things in this collection suggest comparison with Poe's
writings for weirdness and bizarre imaginative power, though of
course there are wide differences between the styles of the two
writers.
In March, 1820, came a letter of good wishes from
Beethoven, whose music Hoffmann greatly admired; hence the letter
was a source of much real pleasure to him. Spontini, the well-known
writer of operas, came to Berlin in the summer of the same year and
was received by Hoffmann with every mark of respect. It was indeed
maintained that the composer of Undine
showed an unworthy servility in the way in which he publicly
acknowledged Spontini's talent. Whether this is true would appear
doubtful; servility was not one of the author's failings, though
vanity was. By Spontini's ministering to his vanity Hoffmann may
have been provoked to return him the compliment in his own coin, but
it is hardly likely that he went so far as to flatter against his
own conviction or against his better judgment. Of his longer and
more ambitious works the one which he ranked highest in merit was
Lebensansichten des Katers Murr, nebst
Biographie des Kapellmeisters Johannes Kreisler, the first
volume of which appeared in 1820 and the second in 1822. In respect
of literary form and execution, as well as of artistic worth, this
is undoubtedly Hoffmann's most finished production (i.e.
of his longer works). It contains a good deal of genial, keen, and
subtle satire, conveyed in the doings of Murr the tom-cat; and it is
also a useful source for early biographical details, both of facts
and of mental development and opinions, contained in the
"waste-paper leaves" (treating of Kreisler), inserted at frequent
intervals between those which carry on the life and adventures of
Murr. The third volume, which was all ready and completed in the
author's head, and only wanted writing down, never came to the
birth. The first two volumes present to us a personification of
Hoffmann's humoristic self, and the third was to culminate in
Kreisler's insanity, a result brought about by the disappointments
and baffling experiences he encountered in life--Hoffmann's own
career, that is; and the whole was to conclude with the
Lichte Stunden eines wahnsinnigen Musikers,--a
work which had been occupying his mind ever since he was in Bamberg,
and which had not yet been executed. In 1821 was published one of
his weakest things, a fairy tale, Prinzessin
Brambilla, which is greatly wanting in clearness of conception,
though he himself ranked it highly.
The excesses in which Hoffmann had for so long
indulged brought at last, as may easily be conceived, their own
inevitable retribution. The first herald of the approaching physical
troubles was the death (November 30, 1821) of the sagacious cat who
was the real hero of Kater Murr. Hoffmann
was much cut up by the death of his favourite, which he described to
Hitzig with truly touching pathos.26
Soon after this he was suddenly stricken down by disease--tabes
dorsalis; his body gradually died, beginning at the feet and
moving up to the brain, a process which lasted several weeks. But
from the autumn of 1821 to April, 1822, he was cheered by the daily
visits of the beloved friend of his youth, Hippel, who had come up
to Berlin for that space of time. Hoffmann celebrated his 46th
birthday with this true friend, and with Hitzig and others less
dear. Hoffmann and Hippel were dwelling fondly upon the days of
their youth and reviving old recollections, when mention was made of
death and dying. Hitzig remarked in substance that "life was not the
highest of all goods;" this caused the suffering Hoffmann to reply
with passionate emphasis, such as he did not give way to on any
other occasion during the course of the evening, "No, no--let me
live, live--let me only live, no matter in what condition." "There
was something awful," says Hitzig, "in the way in which these words
burst from his lips." And his wish was fulfilled in terrible wise;
one limb after the other failed to perform its office; his feet and
hands and certain parts of his inner organism became quite dead. On
the day before he died he was virtually a corpse as far as his neck;
and so he was full of hope that he should soon be well again, since
he "felt no more pain then." Even in this truly pitiable and
helpless condition his imagination continued to pour forth a stream
of the most whimsical and humorous fancies, and his cheerfulness was
even greater than in the days of sound health. Hippel's departure in
April was a hard blow to him. About four weeks before his death he
underwent the sharp operation of being burned on each side of the
spine with red-hot irons. When Hitzig entered the room after the
terrible operation was over, Hoffmann cried, "Can you smell the
flavour of roast meat?" and he said that whilst the doctors were
burning him, the thought entered his mind that the "Minister of
Police was having him leaded lest he should slip out as
contraband;"--he was shrivelled up to a mummy almost, so that, owing
to his small size as well, a woman could carry him in her arms.
Though his body was thus a perfect wreck, his mental powers were as
brilliant and keen as ever; and when his hands proved useless to
him, he engaged the services of an amanuensis and went on dictating
until almost the very hour of his death. In fact, the last thing he
spoke about was a direction for his writer to read to him the
passages where he had broken off in
Der Feind;
then he turned his face to the wall; the fatal rattle was heard in
his throat; and all Hoffmann's earthly troubles were over (June 25,
1822).
It is very remarkable that the works dictated by
this extraordinary man on his deathbed show an almost total
departure from the style of most of his previous tales. He no longer
records his own experiences,--the events and occurrences, the
sentiments and thoughts, that were peculiarly his own,--but he
writes from a purely objective standpoint, and
creates. Of most of his other works it may be said that they are
he; but of these it can only be said they
are his in the sense that they owed their
origin to him. Meister Johannes Wacht, one
of these, is translated in Vol. II. The scene is laid in Bamberg,
and the characters of the story were also said to be faithful
portraits of actual people in Bamberg; yet we look in vain to find
anything like Hoffmann himself in it.
Des
Vetters Eckfenster, though hardly a tale, is yet one of the best
things Hoffmann has written. Those who know Émile Souvestre's
Un Philosophe sous les Toits would find in
this thing of Hoffmann's dying days something to their taste; it is
a running commentary on personages seen in the market from the
writer's own window, and each little scene brings before us a true
and lifelike character in a few weighty and well-chosen words.
Die Genesung, a mere sketch, arose out of
the dying man's pathetic longing to see the green of the woods and
the meadows. Der Feind, a fragment full of
promise, is a tale of old Nuremberg of the days of Albrecht Dürer,
who figures in it. Before being deprived of the use of his hands he
had written several other short tales, amongst which may be
mentioned Die Doppeltgänger, as being a
favourite theme with Hoffmann, and
Der
Elementargeist, a weird, entrancing story. In
Die Räuber he gives us a weak version of
Schiller's celebrated work.
In Hoffmann we have an instance of a man who
nearly all his life long failed to get himself placed amid the
circumstances in the midst of which it was his one burning wish to
be placed. He never found his right calling. He is a man ruined by
circumstances (zerfahren). He was not
wanting in warm natural feeling, as is proved by his close and
faithful friendships with Hippel, Hitzig, and Kunz; and more than
one instance of spontaneous kindness and of winning amiability are
preserved by his biographer.27
In youth his mind and heart were full of noble thoughts and
aspirations, and he was sincerely desirous to educate himself up to
better things. We see it in "May it never happen to me that my heart
is not readily receptive of every communication from without, as
well as for every feeling within, for the head must never injure the
heart, nor must the heart ever run away with the head, that is my
idea of culture," and "an excitable heart and a restless nature will
never let us be quite happy, but will have a beneficial influence
upon our education, upon our striving after greater perfection." His
poetic temperament, and such like poetic tendencies, found no
responsive sympathy amongst his relatives. Being thrust back upon
himself and then having his feelings centred, when at length they
did meet with sympathetic appreciation, in such a way as could only
bring disappointment and unhappiness, he was early made a fit
instrument for circumstances to play upon, and sorely was he
buffeted by them through all the years from going to Posen right
down until the day of his death. But this result must also be traced
partly to the want of a parent's loving, watchful eye. In those
years which are the most important for moulding a boy's character he
was practically left to go his own way. True, his uncle Otto held
him down to habits of industry and order; but he did nothing to
encourage the boy's better and higher nature, or guide it
sympathetically along the paths where it was striving to find its
own way. Hoffmann had no high idea of the moral dignity of man, and
at times even seemed to have but little conception of it. The
relations upon which he lived with his uncle Otto and the history of
his own father prevented this sense of moral worth from being
planted in his mind. The germ which bore fruit in his love for
extremes, for what was extraordinary and quite out of the common
beaten track of life, was probably engendered in the following way.
Not finding the sympathy he needed in his efforts after a better
life, he turned in upon himself and began to despise the petty
details of everyday existence; and several passages in his letters
clearly go to show that his unhappiness and discontent were largely
due to the fact of his overlooking the real enjoyment to be derived
from the small occurrences and events of every day, which rightly
viewed are capable of affording such a large fund of real
contentment. In a letter to Hippel early in 1815, he himself states,
"For my shattered life I have really only myself to blame; I ought
to have shown more resolution and less levity in my earlier years.
When a youth, when a boy, I ought to have devoted myself entirely to
Art and never to have thought of anything else. But of course
something also was due to perverse education." It must not be
supposed, however, from the above that he was deficient in firmness
or strength of will. The perseverance with which he worked through
his early examinations, as well as the energy and zeal he brought to
bear upon his official duties, contradict such supposition. Specific
instances might also be quoted did space permit; it will be enough
to recall his resolve never to gamble. It is stated that he avowed
his intention to amend his ways if he recovered from his last fatal
illness. The real key to his wayward character lies in the fact just
alluded to, that he had no conception of the supreme importance of
moral worth. This was the backbone wanting in his character; and for
this reason we fail to detect any steady sterling course of action
through all the vicissitudes of his life. If he had a ruling motive
it was capricious humour; at any rate it swayed him more than
anything else. On one day he would laugh at what had annoyed him on
the day preceding, or be delighted to-day at what he had greeted
yesterday with irony. Nobody knew better than himself how he was
tyrannised over by his changeable moods. "My capricious humour (Laune)
is the first weather-prophet I know, and if I had the good-will and
were bored I could make an almanac," is one of his expressions; and
another runs, "You know that my capricious humour is often
Maître de Flaisir." Besides being thus the
creature of caprice, he was also impulsive, impetuous, and wont to
act with impassioned haste. These qualities were revealed in his
restless vivacious eyes, in his movements and gestures, and even
broke out in extraordinary grimaces, as already remarked. And just
in the same fervid eager way he often seized upon an idea or a
pleasing fancy, till it took complete possession of him; he could
not rid himself of it. With this was combined his remarkable
quickness of perception and comprehension; a single gesture or
phrase was often sufficient to enable him to grasp a character. What
he hated above all things was dulness--ennui;
this never failed to provoke his keenest irony and bitterest
sarcasms. In his last years he even became cynical and rugged and
vulgar, in which we may of course trace the influence of his tavern
associates. It is to his credit that he did not sink into Byronic
misanthropy and bitter self-lacerating scorn, or even into Heine's
irreverence and persiflage.
An old German poet says, "Seht das Loos der
Menschheit--Heute Freude, Morgen Leid;"28
but with Hoffmann joy and pain were frequently more closely allied
than this even: whilst the jest was on his lips the sting would be
in his heart. In this, as well as in several other features of his
stormy career, he did indeed resemble his countryman Heine. One of
the necessities of his nature was human society--not simply society,
however, but people who could appreciate him, who could fall in with
his moods, and either follow intelligently when he led, or lend him
a stimulating and helping hand to keep the ball of wit and jollity
rolling. An illustration of this is found in the fact that he "did
not love the society of women. If he could not mystify them, or draw
them into the circle of his fantasies, or discover in them any
decided talent for comicality, he preferred the society of men."
Amongst women, however, after those of the class just named, he was
most interested in young and pretty girls, being attracted by the
charm of their fresh beauty, not by the charm of their mind. Learned
women he hated.
Hoffmann was, as already observed, the child of
extremes. These were revealed not only in his life and action, but
also in his writings; for his writings are the man. Indeed German
critics have said that his works, particularly the
Fantasiestücke, are "lyrics in prose."
What they mean by this phrase is chiefly that the things he wrote
exhibit subjective phrases of his nature, and are disconnected, or
rather not connected, not balanced parts of a systematic whole. This
is true so far as it is true that Hoffmann never did complete a long
work, except the Elixiere, and this work,
as there has been occasion to point out, consists of two disjointed
parts. One of the things that strike us most in reading his books is
the peculiar mixture of the real and the unreal, of matters
appertaining to actual life and of fantasies born only of the
imagination. Very often the imagination would be called by most
people a diseased imagination; but it is not always so, sometimes it
is the poet's imagination. Hence, from this blending or close
alternation of reality with what is not of the earth--hence came his
love for fairy tales, tales in which we meet with kobolds, imps,
witches, little monsters of all kinds--the spirits and apparitions
in fact which used to haunt his excited fancy in such a strange way.
Several of these are poetic creatures, whom he handles in a light,
graceful, and pleasing style (Goldener Topf,
Nussknacker,
Das
fremde Kind, &c.); others, on the other hand, are drawn in
horrible and unearthly colours and awaken the sentiments of awe and
dread. What he loved especially to dwell upon was the "night side of
natural science," the puzzling relations between the psychic and the
physical principles both in man and in Nature. Hence such states as
somnambulism, magnetism, dreams, dark forebodings of the terrible,
inhuman passions, and such things as automata and vampyres, had for
him an insuperable attraction. Insanity was a mystery that haunted
his thoughts for years: it figures largely in
Die Elixiere and
Der Sandmann; and in
the third part of Kater Murr it was his
intention to represent Kreisler's battle with adverse circumstances
as culminating in insanity. Handling these, and states and
situations equally hideous, fantastic, and grotesque, with
extraordinary clearness and precision both of thought and of
language, considering the often misty nature of the subjects he
treats of, and pouring upon the vivid pictures he conjures up the
brightness of his wit and the exuberant gaiety and grace of his
fancy, he succeeds in creating scenes, situations, and characters
which seem verily instinct with real life. This end was attained
principally by the true genius he displayed in perception,
apprehension, and description. His graphic descriptive power is that
which mainly procured him his wide-reaching fame during his own
lifetime, not only in Germany but also in France, and is that which
principally gives to his works whatever permanent value they may
possess. With a painter's eye he grasps a character or a scene by a
few of its more prominent and essential features, and with a
painter's hand and eye he sketches them in a few telling strokes.
The reader must not look to find in Hoffmann any clever or subtle
analysis of the deeper motives that work towards the development of
character; all that Hoffmann can give him will be talented
pictures. He himself lays down his canon
of literary spirit in the introduction to the first volume of the
Serapionsbrüder--
"Vain are an author's efforts to bring us to
believe in what he does not believe in himself, in what he
cannot believe in, since he has not made it his own by
seeing it (erschauen).
What else are the characters of such an author, who, to borrow
the old phrase, is no true seer, but deceitful marionettes,
painfully glued together out of alien materials?... At least let
each one of us [the Brethren] strive earnestly and truly to
grasp the image that has arisen in his mind in all its features,
its colours, its lights and its shades, and then when he feels
himself really enkindled by them let him proceed to embody them
in an external description."
Hoffmann has mostly succeeded in acting up to his canon
and has written in its spirit; and in so far true genius cannot be
denied him. And he possessed in no less eminent a degree the true
art of the born story- teller. The interest seldom if ever flags;
and the curious anomalies of men and of men-creatures (Mensch-Thiere),
whom he mingles amongst his winning heroines and his delightful
satiric characters, oftener than not quite enthrall the mind or
afford it true enjoyment as the case may be, and this they do in
spite of the fact that, owing to their own nature, they frequently
stand outside the ordinary sphere of human sympathies. Of course it
may readily be conceived that the danger which he was liable to fall
into was want of clearness in conception and sentiment, but he has
avoided this rock for the most part with wonderful skill. One of his
latest productions, Prinzessin Brambilla,
is the one where this fault is most markedly conspicuous; nor is the
Elixiere free from it.
German critics have not failed to notice the sweet
grace and winning loveliness which hover about the characters of
most of his heroines. They are nearly all presented in colours
impregnated with real poetic beauty; see, for instance, Seraphina (Das
Majorat), Annunciata (Doge), Madelon
and Mdlle. de Scudéry (Scudéri), Rose (Meister
Martin), Cecily (Berganza), and
others.
Carlyle, whose brief and for the most part
truthful essay upon Hoffmann (in vol. ii. of his
German Romance, 1829) appears to have been
based largely upon others' opinions rather than upon first-hand
acquaintance with his author, says that in him "there are the
materials of a glorious poet, but no poet has been fashioned out of
them." And when we seek for poetic elements in Hoffmann's works, we
are not altogether disappointed. We have just stated that his
heroines are creations of a poet's fancy; and in the scene between
Father Hilarius and Kreisler in Kater Murr,
and in the passages and characters already alluded to in
Die Elixiere, in the sunny cheerful
Märchen--Der goldene
Topf (which Hoffmann calls his "poetic masterpiece"), in
Das Gelübde,
Nussknacker, &c., we enter the world of higher imagination.
Again, whilst in Doge und Dogaresse we are
arrested by the poetic charm of the island life of the Lagune in the
golden days of Venice's splendour, in
Meister
Martin we are no less, perhaps still more impressed by the rich
romantic beauty of life in the old mediæval town of Nuremberg. In
Die Scudéri we are made acquainted with
the cold glittering court of Louis XIV. through the lovable
character of Mdlle. de Scudéry; and whilst on the one hand following
with deep interest the fate of Brusson and his love, on the other we
are led to contrast the subtilty of the plot with the fine analytic
power of Poe in The Murders in the Rue Morgue.
When visiting with Hoffmann the weird castle of
Das Majorat, we are made to hear the cold
shrill blasts of the Baltic whistling past our ears, and to feel the
storm and the sea-spray dashing in our faces. These four tales are
unquestionably the best that Hoffmann has written; to them must be
added Meister Wachte, on account of its
excellent characterisation of the hero. In striking contrast with
the majority of the things he has written, these five tales show him
when he is most objective; in them he has wielded his powers with
more wise restraint than in any of the others, and introduced less
of his strange fantastic caricatures. Next after these tales must be
named, though on a lower level, and simply because they best
illustrate his peculiar genius, the two books of
Kater Murr, the fairy tale
Der goldene Topf, and
Des Vetters Eckfenster. In the works here
named we have the best fruits of Hoffmann's pen. And if instead of
asking in the mistaken spirit of competition which is now so much in
vogue. What is Hoffmann's position in literature? we ask rather, Has
he written anything that deserves to be read? we shall have already
had our answer. The works here singled out are worthy of being
preserved and read; and of them Das Majorat
and Meister Martin are perhaps entitled to
be called the best, though some German critics have mentioned
Meister Wacht along with the former as
having a claim to the first rank.
It is now time to take a glance at Hoffmann's
satiric power. This was launched principally against two classes of
society; the one is that of which his uncle Otto was a type, the man
who is unreasonably obstinate in defence of the conventionalities of
life, and no less so in their steady observance: the second class
was that whose representatives aroused Hoffmann's ire so greatly at
Bamberg and Berlin "tea-circles," or "tea-sings"--those who
coquetted with art in an unworthy or frivolous manner. Against this
latter class his irony and satiric wrath were especially fierce, as
may be read in Berganza,
Die Irrungen, the
Kreisleriana,
Kater Murr,
Signor Formica, &c. Perhaps the most
amusing, for quiet humour, of the former class is
Die Brautwahl. The force of his satiric
power lay in the skilful use of sudden contrast. Hence it plays more
frequently upon or near the surface, and lacks the depth and pathos
of true humour; but it is idle to expect from a man what he hasn't
got.
In so far as this author had any serious
philosophical belief, it would appear to have been that man was a
slave of Chance, or Fate, or Destiny, or whatever it may be called.
Sometimes he is the plaything of circumstances; sometimes a
defenceless victim under "Fate's brazen hand," or of "that Eternal
Power which rules over us." The real significance of life is
summoned up in the statement that it is a struggle between
contending powers of good and evil, against both of which man is
equally helpless. He believed that whenever any good fell to a man's
lot there was always some evil lurking in ambush behind it, or, to
borrow his own expressive phrase, "the Devil must put his tail upon
everything." His further views are here quoted from
Der Magnetiseur:--
"We are knitted with all things without us,
with all Nature, in such close ties, both psychic and physical,
that the severance from them would, if it were indeed possible,
destroy our own existence. Our so- called intensive life is
conditioned by the extensive; the former is only a reflex of the
latter, in which the figures and images received, as if
reflected in a concave mirror, often appear in changed relations
that are wonderful and singularly strange, notwithstanding that
these caricatures again And their real originals in life. I
boldly maintain, that no man has ever thought or dreamt anything
the elements of which were not to be found in Nature; nohow can
he get out of her."
Was this the cause or the result of the visions he used
to see?
From his conception of strife between good and
evil as interpreting the significance of existence arose that
dissonance which lies at the root of nearly all his most
characteristic works--that sense of want, that failure to find final
satisfaction which may be only too readily detected. For the
conflict within himself he knew no real mediatory: he was baffled to
discover a higher category in which to unite the conflicting
principles. Religion he never willingly talked about; hence it could
not give him the satisfaction he lacked. He thought he found it in
Art, however; since for Art he battled with all the strength of his
genius, and in the sacred mission of Art he believed with all his
soul. He has many enthusiastic bursts on the subject, agreeing in
some respects with the views laid down by Schiller in his
Aesthetische Erziehung des Menschen:--
"They alone are true artists who devote
themselves with undivided love and enthusiasm to their goddess;
to them alone is true Art revealed.... There is no Art which is
not sacred.... The sacred purpose of all Art is apprehension of
Nature in that deepest sense of the word which enkindles in the
soul an ardent striving after the higher life.... I do not ask
about the artistes life; but his work must be pure, in the
highest degree respectable, and if possible religious. It has no
need, therefore, to have any so-called moral tendency; nay, it
ought not to have such. The truly beautiful is itself moral,
only in another form.... Art is eternally clear. The mists of
ignorance are as inimical to her as the life-destroying carbonic
acid gas of immorality. Art is the highest perfection of human
power. Heart and Understanding are her common parents."
Music was his favourite art. It first taught him to
feel; and not only was it his unfailing solace in hours of trouble,
but it brought him messages of deeper import: it disclosed to him
glimpses of another world--it was the "language of heaven." Here
again a passage from his own works expresses his opinions upon this
point better than any other pen can express them:--
"No art, I believe, affords such strong
evidence of the spiritual in man as music, and there is no art
that requires so exclusively means that are--purely intellectual
and ætherial. The intuition of what is Highest and Holiest--of
the Intelligent Power which enkindles the spark of life in all
Nature--is audibly expressed in musical sound; hence music and
song are the utterance of the fullest perfection of
existence--praise of the Creator! Agreeably to its real
essential nature, therefore, music is religious cultus; and its
origin is to be sought for and found, simply and solely, in
religion, in the Church."29
Treating of Hoffmann's position with respect to music,
Wilibald Alexis says, "We do not know any other man who has
expressed in words such a real true enthusiasm for an art [as
Hoffmann for music]; and specialists assure us that few have
thoroughly grasped the nature of music so admirably."
As far as a foreigner may presume to judge of
Hoffmann's language and literary style, it would appear to be
chiefly distinguished by strong grace, ease, naturalness, and
nervous vigour. German critics acknowledge its charms, calling it a
model of clearness and masterly skill and elegance. Perhaps its
beauties are best seen, that is in a more chastened form, in
Kater Murr. Repetitions, however, and
exaggerations in description of sentiment tend, at times, to mar the
reader's pleasure. Signs of haste, too, are not wanting, as Carlyle
pointed out. This was chiefly due to the very large number of
commissions he received from publishers and others, who keenly
competed for the productions of his pen. At the date of his death he
had as many commissions on hand as would, if he accepted them all,
have kept him fully employed for several years.
To those who love a good story, well told, the
five specially mentioned may be recommended; and for those who
desire to explore the dark by-paths (Irrwege)
of the human spirit, to penetrate to some of its rarest comers, and
to know all its ins and outs, as well as for those who aim at
studying German literature, Hoffmann is a writer who ought to be
read at greater length.
THE TRANSLATOR.
FOOTNOTES TO "BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE":
Footnote
1
The chief sources for this biographical notice have been
E. T. A. Hoffmann's Leben und Nachlass, von J.
G. Hitzig, herausg. von Micheline Hoffmann, geb. Rorer, 5 vols.,
Stuttgart, 1839; Erinnerungen aus meinem Leben,
von Z. Funck [C. Kunz], Leipsic, 1836; and various minor essays and
papers.]
Footnote
2
Later in life he adopted the name of "Amadeus" instead of "Wilhelm,"
out of admiration for Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the great musician
(see Erinng., pp. 77-80).]
Footnote
3
Another account (see H. Döring's article "Hoffmann," in Ersch und
Gruber's Allgem. Encyk.) states 21st Jan.,
1778. The date in the text is the one, however, that is generally
accepted, and now without question; it is the one confirmed by
Hoffmann himself (cf. Letter 15 in
Leben).]
Footnote
4
These two books, together with Schubert's
Symbolik des Traums, were favourites with him throughout life.
In his youth he was a most diligent student of the new literature of
his native country; English he also read to a large extent,
Shakespearian quotations being very frequent in his letters; and we
find the names of Sterne, Swift, Smollett, &c. Later in life he
hardly read anything unless it were exceptionally good, and then
only when recommended to do so by his friends. Political papers he
never read, and scarcely ever criticisms on his own works.]
Footnote
5
That is, after Hippel had completed his academic career, and left
Königsberg.]
Footnote
6
That is, after the king's death in 1797. She afterwards married the
Holbein here mentioned.]
Footnote
7
Romeo and Juliet, iii. 9.]
Footnote
8
Leben, iii. pp. 231-233.]
Footnote
9
A suburb or park of Warsaw, beneath the tall beeches of which
Hoffmann loved to lie dreaming, or sketch from Nature.]
Footnote
10
An equestrian statue of John Sobieski, the deliverer of Vienna from
the Turks.]
Footnote
11
Polish for "moustaches."]
Footnote
12
Leben, iii. pp. 251-254.]
Footnote
13
A very comic incident, of which Hoffmann himself was the hero, took
place on the occasion of Werner's reading his new tragedy
Das Kreuz an der Ostsee to a select circle
of friends. Unfortunately it cannot be compressed into sufficiently
short space to be quoted here. Hoffmann relates it in
Die Serapionsbrüder, vol. iv., after
Signor Formica.]
Footnote
14
Leben, v. pp. 18-20; cf. also
Erinnerungen p. 1, &c., where Kunz details
the circumstances under which he was introduced to Hoffmann.]
Footnote
15
Several of Calderon's, mainly at Hoffmann's suggestion and by his
assistance; the "Worship of the Cross" was particularly successful
in the Catholic town of Bamberg.]
Footnote
16
Kunz tells us how they used to go down into the cellar, sit astride
of the cask, and drink, and sich des heitern
Lebens freuen with genial and sprightly sallies; and his picture
has no faint smack of Auerbach's Keller (Faust).
See Leben, v. p. 177, note.]
Footnote
17
Compare Nanni in Meister Wacht, Clara in
Der Sandmann, Rose in
Meister Martin, Cecily in
Berganza, &c.]
Footnote
18
See Erinnerungen, pp. 60
sq.]
Footnote
19
See Leben, iv. p. 95, v. p. 27;
Erinnerungen, pp. 28-31.]
Footnote
20
These adventures are described in one of the most humorous chapters
(iv.) of the Erinnerungen.]
Footnote
21
It is treated of in Don Juan and in
Die Fremdenloge, in the
Fantasiestücke. A recent critic has
declared that this essay will always have value in connection with
the stage-representation of the problem of Don Juan (cf.
Die Gegenwart, 24th May, 1884).]
Footnote
22
Leben, vol. iv. pp. 58, 59.]
Footnote
23
Leben, vol. iv. p. 140.]
Footnote
24
Contessa and Koreff are strikingly portrayed in the
Serapionsbrüder (vol. ii.), the former as
"Sylvester," the latter as "Vincenz."]
Footnote
25
The sexual relations are handled in a mystical, sensuous way;
something of the same kind of treatment occurs again in
Das Elementargeist.]
Footnote
26
Leben, vol. iv. pp. 118-120.]
Footnote
27
Leben, iii. pp. 120-123; iv. p. 60.]
Footnote
28
"Behold the lot of mankind--joy to-day, to-morrow grief," Walther
von Eschenbach's Parzival, ii. 103, ll.
23, 24.]
Footnote
29
Serapionsbrüder, vol. ii., Introduction to
part iv.]
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