[Footnote 1: "Toute opération active est absolument interdite par Molinos. C'est même offenser Dieu, que de ne pas tellement s'abandonner à lui, que l'on soit comme un corps inanimé. De-là vient, suivant cette hérésiarque, que le vœu de faire quelque bonne œuvre est un obstacle à la perfection, parce que l'activité naturelle est ennemie de la grâce; c'est un obstacle aux opérations de Dieu et à la vraie perfection, parce que Dieu veut agir en nous sans nous. Il ne faut connoître ni lumière, ni amour, ni résignation. Pour être parfait, il ne faut pas même connoître Dieu; il ne faut penser, ni au paradis, ni à l'enfer, ni à la mort, ni à l'éternité. On ne doit point désirer de sçavoir si on marche dans la volonté de Dieu, si on est assez résigné ou non. En un mot, il ne faut point que l'âme connoisse ni son état ni son néant; il faut qu'elle soit comme un corps inanimé. Toute réflexion est nuisible, même celles qu'on fait sur ses propres actions, et sur ses défauts. Ainsi on ne doit point s'embarrasser du scandale que l'on peut causer, pourvu que l'on n'ait pas intention de scandaliser. Quand une fois on a donné son libre arbitre à Dieu, on ne doit plus avoir aucun désir de sa propre perfection, ni des vertus, ni de sa sanctification, ni de son salut; il faut même se défaire de l'espérance, parce qu'il faut abandonner à Dieu tout le soin de ce que nous regarde, même celui de faire en nous et sans nous sa divine volonté. Ainsi c'est une imperfection que de demander; c'est avoir une volonté et vouloir que celle de Dieu s'y conforme. Par la même raison il ne faut lui rendre grâce d'aucune chose; c'est le remercier d'avoir fait notre volonté; et nous n'en devons point avoir." ('Causes célèbres,' par Richer. Tom. ii.: 'Histoire du Procès de la Cadière.')]
"It would carry us a good deal too far," interrupted Lothair, "into the realm of the most horrible dreams, and--to speak generally--of that amount of crack-brainedness of which there can never be any question amongst us Serapion Brethren. So let us abandon the subject of all that sublimity of mental unhingedness which is the foster-mother of religious mania."
Ottmar and Vincenz agreed in this, and added that Theodore had committed a breach of Serapiontic rule by speaking so fully on a subject to some extent strange to the other brethren, in this manner giving himself up to impulses of the moment, and damming up the flow of other communications.
Cyprian, however, look Theodore's part, maintaining that the subject on which, for the most part, he had been speaking, might be thought to possess such an amount of interest (though, as far as he himself was concerned, he must say it was of an uncanny character) that even those to whom the person to whom it had referred had never been known, could not but feel themselves very much attracted and affected by it.
Ottmar thought that he could have felt a certain amount of interest about it if it had been written in a book. Cyprian said that thesapienti sat, was enough as regarded it.
In the meantime, Theodore had gone into the next room, and now came back with a veiled picture, which he placed on a table against the wall, setting two candles in front of it. All eyes were bent upon it, and when Theodore quickly removed the cloth from before it an "Ah!" came from all their lips.
It was the author of the 'Soehne des Thales,' a life-size half-length, a most speaking likeness, as if it had been stolen out of a looking-glass.
"Is it possible!" cried Ottmar, enthusiastically. "Yes, from under those bushy eyebrows there gleams from the dark eyes the strange fire of that unlucky mysticism which dragged the poet to his destruction. But the goodness, the kindliness, the lovableness and the talents which beam out of the rest of his features, and this charmingly 'roguish' smile of real humour which plays about the lips, and seems to try unsuccessfully to hide itself in the long, projecting chin, which the hand is stroking so quietly. Of a truth I feel myself more and more drawn to this mystic, who grows the more human the longer one looks at him."
"We all feel the same," cried Lothair and Vincenz.
"Yes, yes," cried the latter, "those sorrowful, gloomy eyes get brighter. You are right, Ottmar, he grows human--homo factus est. See, he looks with his eyes--he smiles; presently he will say something that will delight us; some heavenly jest; some fulminating sally of wit is playing about his lips. Out with it, out with it, good Zacharias! Stand on no ceremony! We are your friends, master of reserved irony! Ha! Serapion Brethren! let us elect him, glasses in hand, an honorary member of our Society; we will drink to our brotherhood, and I will pour a libation before his picture, and bedew with a few glittering drops my own varnished Parisian boots into the bargain."
The friends took their filled glasses in hand to carry out Vincenz's suggestion.
"Stop!" cried Theodore. "Let me say a word or two first. To begin with, I hope you will by no means apply that psychical problem of mine (which I perhaps stated somewhat too forcibly) directly to our author here. Rather take it that my object was to show you very vividly and convincingly how dangerous it is to form conclusions about phenomena in a man of which we know nothing as to their deep psychic origin; nay, how heartless, as well as senseless, it is to persecute, with silly scorn and childish derision, one who has been the victim of a depressing influence, such as we ourselves would probably have resisted less successfully. Who shall cast the first stone at one who has grown defenceless because his strength has ebbed away with the heart's-blood flowing from wounds inflicted by his own self-deception? My end is gained now. Even you--Lothair, Ottmar, Vincenz, severe inflexible critics and judges, have quite altered your opinions now that you have seen my poet face to face. His face speaks truth. I must testify that, in the happy days when he and I were friends, he was the most delightful and charming of men in every relation of life. All the oddities, and strange eccentricities of his exterior, and of his whole being (which he himself, with delicate irony, tried to bring to light, rather than to conceal) only produced the effect of rendering him, in the most various surroundings and most diverse circumstances, always in the most attractive manner, utterly delightful. Moreover, he was full of a subtle humour which rendered him the worthyconfrèreof Hamann, Heppel, and Scheffner. It is impossible that all that blossom of promise can be withered and dead, blighted by the poison breath of a miserable infatuation. No! If that picture could come to life--if the poet were to walk in and sit down actually amongst us here, life and genius would coruscate out of his discourse as of yore. I fain would hope that I see the dawn of a new and brilliant day! May the rays of true wisdom break out more and more brightly; may recovered strength and renewed power of labour produce work which shall show us the poet in the pure glory of the verily inspired singer, even if it does not happen before the late autumn of his days! And to this, ye Serapion Brethren, let us drink in happy expectation."
The friends, forming a semicircle round the picture, clinked their glasses together. "And then," said Vincenz, "it won't matter whether he is Private Secretary, Abbé, or Privy Councillor, Cardinal, or the very Pope; or even a Bishopin partibus infidelium, that's to say, of Paphos!"
As was usually the case with Vincenz, he had without intending it, or even being aware of it, stuck a comic tail on to a serious subject. But the friends felt too strangely moved to pay particular attention to this. They sat down again in silence at the table, while Theodore carried the poet's picture back into the next room.
"I had meant," said Sylvester, "to read you this evening a story, for the idea of which I am indebted to a strange chance, or rather, to a strange remembrance. But it is so late that Serapiontic hours would be long over before I had finished it."
"That is very much my case too," said Vincenz, "with my long-promised tale, which I have got pressed against my heart here in the breast-pocket of my coat (that usualboudoirof literary productions) like a pet child. It has sucked itself fat and lusty at the mother's milk of my imagination, and has thereby got so forward and so talkative that if I were to let it begin, it would go on till daybreak. So that it must wait till the next meeting. To talk, I mean to converse, appears dangerous to-night; for, before one knows where one is, some heathen king, or Pater Molinos (or somemauvais sujetor another of the sort), suddenly sits in the midst of us, talking all kinds of unintelligible nonsense. So that if either of us can out with a manuscript with something amusing in it, I hope he will let us hear it."
"If anything which any one of us may be able to produce to-night," said Cyprian, "must seem to be nothing more than a stop-gap, or an intermezzo between other melodies, I may pluck up courage to read to you a trifle which I wrote down many years ago, when I had been passing through a period of much mystery and some danger. I had completely forgotten the existence of the pages in question, until they accidentally came into my hands a short time ago, vividly recalling the times to which they relate. My belief is that what led to the production of this rather chimerical story is much more interesting than the thing itself; and I shall have more to say on that subject when I have finished it."
Cyprian read:
When any allusion was made to the last siege of Dresden, Anselmus turned even paler than he ordinarily was. He would fold his hands in his lap--he would gaze before him, lost in melancholy memories--he would murmur to himself,
"God of Heaven, were I to put my legs into my new riding-boots at the proper time, and run across the bridge towards Neustadt, paying no attention to burning straw, and the bursting shells, I have no doubt that this great personage and the other would, put his head out of his carriage window and say, with a polite bow, 'Come along, my good sir, without any ceremony. I have room for you.' But there was I shut up and hemmed in in the middle of the accursed Marmot's-burrow, all ramparts, embankments, trenches, star-batteries, covered ways, &c., suffering hunger and misery as much as the best of them. Didn't it come to this, that if one happened to turn over the pages of a Roux's dictionary by way of passing the time, and came upon the word 'Eat,' one's exhausted stomach cried out in utter amazement, 'Eat? Now what does that mean?' People who had once on a time been fat buttoned their skin over them, like a double-breasted coat, a natural Spencer! Oh, heavens, if only that Master of the Rolls--that Lindhorst--hadn't been there! Popowicz of course wanted to kill me, but the Dolphin sprinkled marvellous life-balsam out of its silver-blue nostrils. And Agafia!" When he spoke this name, Anselmus was wont to get up from his seat, jump just a little, once, twice, three times; and then sit down again. It was always quite useless to ask him what he really meant, on the whole, by those extraordinary sayings and grimaces. He merely answered, "Can I possibly describe what happened with Popowicz and Agafia without being supposed to be out of my mind?" And every one would laugh gently, as much as to say, "Well, my good fellow, we suppose that whether or not."
One drear, cloudy October evening, Anselmus, who was understood to be somewhere a long way off--came in at the door of a friend of his. He seemed to be moved to the depths of his being, he was kindlier and tenderer than at other times--almost pathetic. His humour (often perhaps too wildly discursive, too universally antagonistic) was bowing itself, tamed and bridled, before the mighty Spirit which had possession of his inner soul. It had grown quite dark, the friend wanted to send for lights. But Anselmus, taking hold of both his arms, said: "If you would, for once, do me a real favour, don't have lights brought. Let's be content with the dim shining of that Astral lamp which is sending its glimmer from the closet there. You can do what you please--drink tea, smoke tobacco, but don't smash any cups, or throw lighted matches on to my new trousers. Either of those things would not only pain me, but would make an unnecessary noise and disturbance in the enchanted garden into which I have at last managed to get to-day, and in which I am enjoying myself to my soul's content. I shall go and lie on that sofa."
He did so. After a considerable pause, he began:
"To-morrow morning at eight o'clock it will be exactly two years since Count von der Lobau marched out from Dresden with twelve thousand men and four-and-twenty guns, to fight his way to the Meissner Hills."
"Well," said his friend, "I have been sitting here on the stretch of an expectation, almost of a devout description, thinking I was going to hear of some celestial manifestation, coming hovering out of your enchanted garden--and this is all? What interest do I take in Count von der Lobau and his expedition? And fancy you remembering that there were just twelve thousand men and four-and-twenty guns. When did military details of the sort begin to effect a lodgment in that head of yours?"
"Are those days of mystery and fatality," said Anselmus, "which we passed through so short a time ago so completely forgotten by you that you no longer recollect the manner in which the armed monster grasped us and drove us? Thenoli turbareno longer held in check our own exertions of force, and we would notbeheld in check or protected, for in every heart the demon made deep wounds, and, driven by wild torture, every hand grasped the unfamiliar sword, not for defence, no--for attack, that the hateful ignominy might be atoned for, and revenged, by Death! Even at this hour there comes upon me, in bodily form of flesh and blood, that power which was active in those days of darkness, and drove me forth from art and science into that blood-stained tumult. Was it possible, do you think, for me to go on sitting at my desk? I hurried up and down the streets, I followed the troops when they marched out, as far as I dared, merely to see with my own eyes as much as I could, and from what I Baw to gather some hope, paying no heed to the miserable, deceptive, proclamations and news 'from the seat of war.' Very good. When at length that battle of all battles was fought, when all round us every voice was shouting for joy at new-won freedom, whilst we were still lying in chains of slavery, I felt as if my heart would break. I felt as though I must gain air and freedom, for myself and all who were chained to the stake along with me, by means of some terrible deed. It may seem to you now, and with the knowledge of me which you think you possess, incredible and ludicrous; but I can assure you that I went about with the idea in my mind, the insane idea, that I would set a match to some fort which I knew the enemy had got well-stocked with powder, and blow it into the air."
The friend could not help smiling a little at the wild heroism of the unwarlike Anselmus. The latter, however, could not see this, as it was dark; and after a few moments' silence he proceeded as follows. "You have all of you often said that a peculiar planet which presides over me has a manner of bringing marvellous matters about my path on occasions of importance, matters in which people do not believe and which often seem to myself as if they proceeded out of my own inner being, although there they are, outside of me also, taking form as mystic symbols of that element of the marvellous which we find all about us everywhere in life. It was so with me this day two years ago in Dresden. That long day had dragged itself out in dull, mysterious silence; everything was quiet outside the gate--not a shot to be heard. Late in the evening--it might have been about ten o'clock, I slunk into a coffee house in the old market, where, in an out-of-the-way back room into which none of the hated foreigners were allowed to penetrate, friends of like minds and opinions gave each other reassurance of comfort and hope. It was there where, notwithstanding all the lies which were current, the true news of the engagements at the Katzbach, Culm, &c., were first received, where our R. told us of the victory at Leipzig two days after it happened, though God knows how he obtained his knowledge of it. My way had led me past the Brühl Palace, where the Field Marshal was quartered, and I had been struck by the unusual lighting-up of the salons, as well as the stir going on all over the house. I was just mentioning this to my friends, with the remark that the enemy must have something in hand, when R. came hurrying in, breathless, and in great excitement. 'Hear the latest thing,' he began at once. 'There has been a Council of War at the Field Marshal's. General Mouton (Count von der Lobau) is going to fight his way to Meissen with twelve thousand men and four-and-twenty guns. He marches out this morning.' After a good deal of discussion we at last adopted R.'s opinion that this attack, which, from the unceasing watchfulness of our friends outside, might very probably be disastrous to the enemy, would very likely force the Field Marshal to capitulate, and so put a period to our miseries. "How," thought I, as I was going home about midnight, "can R. have found out what the decision come to was almost at the very moment it was arrived at?" However, I was presently aware of a hollow, rumbling sound making itself audible through the deathly stillness of the night. Guns and ammunition waggons, well loaded up with forage, began passing slowly by me in the direction of the Elbe bridge. "R. was right then," I had to say to myself. I followed the line of their march and got as far as the centre of the bridge, where there was at that time a broken arch, temporarily repaired with wooden beams and scaffolding. At each side of this construction was a species of fortification, constructed of high palisading and earth-works. Here, close to this fortification, I took up my position, pressing myself close to the balustrade of the bridge so as not to be seen. It now seemed to me that the tall palisades began moving backwards and forwards, and bending over towards me, murmuring hollow, unintelligible words. The deep darkness of the cloudy night prevented my seeing anything clearly; but when the troops had crossed, and all was as still as death on the bridge, I could make out that there was a deep, oppressed breathing near me, and a faint, mysterious whimpering or whining--one of the dark, scarcely distinguishable baulks of the timber was rising into a higher position. An icy horror fell upon me, and, like a man tortured in a nightmare dream, firmly fettered by leaded clamps, I could not move a muscle. The night-breeze rose, wafting mists about the hills: the moon sent feeble rays through rents in the clouds. And I saw, not far from me, the figure of a tall old man with silvery hair and a long beard. The mantle which fell over his haunches he had cast across his breast in numerous heavy folds. With his long, white naked arm he was stretching a staff far out over the river. It was from him that the murmuring and whimpering proceeded. At that moment I heard the sound of marching coming from the town, and I saw the sheen of arms. The old man cowered down, and began to whimper and lament, in a pitiful voice, holding out a cap to those who were coming over the bridge, as if asking for alms. An officer, laughing, cried, "Voilà St. Pierre, qui veut pêcher!" The one who came next stopped, and said very gravely, "Eh bien! Moi, pêcheur, je lui aiderai à pêcher." Several officers and soldiers, quitting the ranks, threw the old man money, sometimes silently, sometimes with gentle sighs, like men in expectation of death; and he, then, always nodded from side to side with his head in a curious way, uttering a sort of hollow cry of a singular description. At length an officer (in whom I recognized General Mouton) came so very close to the old man that I thought his foaming charger would tramp upon him; and, turning quickly to his aide-de-camp, as he thrust his hat more firmly down on to his head, he asked him, in a loud excited voice, "Qui est cet homme?" "The escort which was in attendance on him stood motionless; but an old, bearded sapper, who was passing with his axe on his shoulder, said, calmly and gravely, "C'est un pauvre maniaque bien connû ici. On l'appelle St. Pierre Pêcheur." On that the force passed on across the bridge, not as at other times, full of foolish jesting, but in dispirited ill-temper and gloom. As the last sound of them died away, and the last gleam of their arms disappeared, the old man slowly reared himself up, and stood with uplifted head and staff outstretched, like some miraculous saint ruling the stormy water. The waves of the river rose into mightier and mightier billows, as if stirred from their depths. And I seemed to hear a hollow voice, coming up from amidst those rushing waters, and saying in the Russian language.
"Michael Popowicz! Michael Popowicz! Do you not see the fireman?"
The old man murmured to himself. He seemed to be praying. But suddenly he cried out, "Agafia!" And at that moment his face glowed in blood-red fire which seemed to be shooting up at him out of the Elbe. On the Meissner Hills great fluttering flames blazed up into the sky; their reflection shone into the river, and upon the old man's face. And now, close beside me upon the bridge, there began to be audible a sort of plashing and splashing, and I saw a dim form climbing up arduously, and presently swing itself over the balustrade with marvellous dexterity.
"Agafia?" the old man cried.
"Girl! Dorothea! In the name of heaven," I was beginning, but in an instant I felt myself clasped hold of, and forcibly drawn away. "Oh, for Christ's sake keep silence, dearest Anselmus, or you are a dead man," whispered the creature who was standing close to me, trembling and shivering with cold. Her long black hair hung down dripping, her sodden garments were clinging to her slender body. She sank down exhausted, saying, in tones of gentle complaining, "Oh, it is so cold down there! Do not say another word, Anselmus dearest, or we must certainly die."
The light of the flames was glowing upon her face, and I saw that she was Dorothea, the pretty country girl who had taken asylum with my landlord when her native village was plundered, and her father killed. He employed her as a servant, and used to say that her troubles had quite stupefied her, or otherwise she would have been a nice enough little thing. And he was right there. She scarcely spoke, except to utter a few words which sounded like incoherent nonsense, whilst her face, which would otherwise have been beautiful, was marred by a strange unmeaning smile. She used to bring my coffee into my room every morning, and I remarked that her figure, complexion, &c., were not at all those of a peasant girl. "Ah," my landlord used to say, "you see she's a farmer's daughter, and a Saxon."
As this girl was thus lying, rather than kneeling before me, half dead, dripping, I quickly pulled off my cloak and wrapped her in it, whispering to her, "Warm yourself, dear, oh, warm yourself, darling Dorothea, or you will die! What were you doing in the cold river?"
"Oh, keep silent!" she said, throwing back the hood of her mantle, and combing her dripping hair back with her fingers. "What I implore you to do is to keep silent. Come to that stone seat yonder. Father is speaking with Saint Andrew, and can't hear us."
We crept cautiously to the stone seat. Utterly carried away by the most extraordinary sensations, overmastered by fear and rapture, I clasped the creature in my arms. She sat down in my lap without hesitation, and threw her arms about my neck. I felt the icy water from her hair running down my neck; but as drops sprinkled on fire only increase its flaming, love and longing only seethed up within me the more vehemently.
"Anselmus," she whispered, "I believe you are good and true. When you sing it goes right through my heart, and you have charming ways. You won't betray me. Who would get you your coffee if you did? And, listen, when you are all starving (and you soon will be), I'll come to you at night, all alone, when nobody can know, and bake you nice cakes. I have flour, fine flour, hidden away in my little room. And we'll have bridecake, white and lovely!" At this she began to laugh, but immediately sobbed and wept. "Ah me! like those in Moskow. Oh! my Alexei! my Alexei! Beautiful dolphin, swim! Swim through the waves! Am I not waiting for you, your faithful love?" She drooped her little head, her sobs grew fainter, and she seemed to sink into a slumber, her bosom heaving and falling in sighs of longing. I looked at the old man. He was standing with outstretched arms, and saying, in hollow tones, "He gives the signal! See how he shakes his fiery locks of flame; how eagerly he treads into the ground those fiery pillars on which he traverses the land! Hear ye not his step of thunder? Feel ye not the vivifying breath which wreathes before him like a gleaming incense cloud? Hither! hither! mighty brethren!"
The sound of the old man's words was like the hollow roar of the approaching whirlwind, and while he spoke, the fire upon the Meissner Hills blazed brighter and brighter. "Help, Saint Andrew!" the girl cried in her sleep. And suddenly she sprung up as if possessed by some terrible idea, and throwing her left arm more closely round me, whispered into my ear, "Anselmus! it would be better that I killed you," and I saw a knife gleaming in her right hand. I repulsed her in terror, with a loud cry of, "Mad creature! What would you do?" Then she screamed out, "Ah, I cannot do it! But all is over with you now!" At that moment the old man cried, "Agafia, with whom are you speaking?" And ere I could bethink me, he was close to me, aiming a stroke with his swung staff at me which would have cleft my skull in two had not Agafia seized me from behind and drawn me quickly away. The staff splintered into a thousand pieces on the stone bench. The old man fell on his knees. "Allons! allons!" resounded from all sides. I had to collect my thoughts, and spring quickly to one side to avoid being crushed by the guns and ammunition waggons which were again coming across.
Next morning the Russians drove this expeditionary force down from the hills, and back into the fortifications, notwithstanding the superiority of its numbers. "'Tis a strange thing," people said, "that our friends outside were informed of the enemy's plans, for that signal fire on the Meissner Hills had the effect of assembling the troops, so that they might make a resistance in force, just at the very time and place where he intended to concentrate his attacking bodies."
For several days Dorothea did not come in the morning with my coffee; and my landlord, pale with terror, told me had seen her, along with the mad beggar of the Elbe bridge, marched off from the marshal's quarters to Neustadt under a strong escort.
"Oh, good heavens!" said Anselmus's friend, "they were discovered and executed."
But Anselmus gave a strange smile and said, "Agafia got away; and, alter the Peace was signed, I received, from her own hands, a beautiful white wedding-cake of her own making."
The reticence of Anselmus was proof against every effort to induce him to say anything more concerning this astonishing affair.
When Cyprian had finished, Lothair said, "You told us that the events which suggested this sketch would be more interesting than it is itself; so that I consider those suggesting circumstances are an essential part of it, without which it is not complete. Therefore, I think you ought at once to give us your why and wherefore, as a sort of explanatory note."
"Does it not seem to you to be as unusual as remarkable," said Cyprian, "that all that I have read to you is literally true, and that even the little 'wind up,' has its kernel of actuality?"
"Let us hear!" the friends cried.
"To begin with," said Cyprian, "I must tell you that the fate which befell Anselmus in my sketch was actually my own, as well. My being ten minutes late decided my destiny, so that I was shut up in Dresden just as it was surrounded on all sides. It is a fact that after the battle of Leipzig, when our condition became more painful and trying day by day, certain friends, or mere acquaintances, whom a similar lot and a like way of thinking had drawn together, used to assemble in the back room of a coffee-house, much as the disciples did at Emmaus. The landlord, one Eichelkraut, was a reliable, trustworthy man, who made no secret of his hostility to the French, and always obliged them to treat him with proper respect and keep their due distance from him when they came in as customers. No Frenchman was allowed to make his way into that backroom on any pretext, and if one did succeed in showing his nose there, he could never get a morsel to eat, or a drop to drink, let him implore, or swear, as much as he liked. Moreover, the room was always as silent as the grave, and we all blew such stifling clouds out of our pipes that the place soon became so full of the exhalation that a Frenchman would be very soon smoked out, like a wasp, and usually went growling and swearing out of the door like one. As soon as he did, the window would be opened to let the reek out, and we would be restored to our peace and comfort again. The life and soul of those meetings was a well-known talented and charming writer: and I remember with great pleasure how he and I used to get upstairs to the upper story of the house, look out of the little garret window into the night, and see the enemy's bivouac fires shining in the sky. We used to say to each other all sorts of wonderful things which the shimmer of those fires, combined with the moonlight, used to put into our heads, and then go down and tell our friends what we imagined we had seen. It is a fact that one night one of our number (an advocate) who was always the first to hear any news, and whose reports were always reliable (heaven knows whence he derived his information), came in and told us the decision which had just been come to by the council of war concerning the expedition of Count von der Lobau, exactly as I have repeated it to you. It is likewise true that as I was going home about midnight, while the French battalions were falling-in in profound silence (nogeneralebeing beaten) and beginning their march over the bridge, I met ammunition waggons, so that I could have no doubt of the accuracy of his information. And lastly, it is the fact that, on the bridge, there was a grey old beggar lying, begging from the French troops as they crossed, whom I could not remember having seen in Dresden before. Last of all it is the fact, and the most wonderful of all, that when, much interested and excited, I reached my own quarters, on climbing up to the top story Ididsee a fire on the Meissner Hills, which was neither a watch fire nor a burning building. The sequel showed that the Russians must have known that night all about the attack intended to be made on the following morning, inasmuch as they concentrated troops which had been at a considerable distance upon the Meissner Hills, and it was principally Russian Landwehr which drove the French back as a storm sweeps a field of stubble. When the remnant of them fell back into the fortifications, the Russians quietly marched off to their previous positions. So that at the very time when the council of war was held at Gouvion de St. Cyr's, the decision which it arrived at was communicated to, or, more probably, overheard by persons who were not supposed to have this in their power. Strangely enough, the advocate knew every detail of the deliberation; for instance, that Gouvion was opposed to the expedition, and only yielded lest he might be thought wanting in courage, in a case where rapidity of decision was a desideratum. Count von der Lobau was determined to march out and endeavour to cut his way to the emperor's army. But how did the surrounding force know so soon of what was projected? For they knew of it in the course of an hour. Not only was it apparently impossible to get across the strongly fortified bridge; and if not, the river would have had to be swum, and the various trenches and walls got over. Moreover, the whole of Dresden was palisaded, and carefully guarded by sentries, to a considerable distance round. Where was the possibility of any human being surmounting all those obstacles in such a short space of time! One might think of telegraphic signals, made by means of lights from some tall tower or loftily situated house. But consider the difficulty of carrying that out, and the risk of detection, for such signals would have been easily seen. At all events it remains an incomprehensible thing how what actually happened came to pass; and that is enough to suggest to a lively imagination all sorts of mysterious and sufficiently extraordinary hypotheses to account for it."
"I bow my knee in deep reverence before Saint Serapion," said Lothair; "and before the most worthy of his disciples, and I am quite sure that a Serapiontic account of the important incidents of the war, as seen by him, if given in his characteristic style, would be exceedingly interesting, as well as very instructive, to imaginative members of the profession of arms. At the same time I have little doubt that the incidents in question came about quite naturally, and in the ordinary course of events. But you had to get your landlord's servant-girl, the pleasing Dorothea, into the water, as a sort of deluding Nixie; and she----"
"Don't jest about that," Cyprian said, very solemnly. "Don't make jokes on that subject, Lothair. At this moment I see that beautiful creature before my eyes, that lovely terrible mystery (I do not know what other name to call her by). It was I who had that bridecake sent to me; glittering in diamonds, flashing like lightning, wrapped in priceless sables----"
"Listen," cried Vincenz. "We are getting at it now. The Saxon maid-servant--the Russian Princess--Moskow--Dresden-- Has not Cyprian always spoken in the most mysterious language, and with the most recondite allusions, of a certain period of his life just after the first French war? It is coming out now! Speak! Let all your heart stream forth, my Cyprianic Serapion and Serpiontic Cyprian."
"And how if I keep silence?" answered Cyprian, suddenly drawing in his horns, and growing grave and gloomy. "And how if I am obliged to keep silence? And Ishallkeep silence!"
He spoke those words in a strangely solemn and exalted tone, leaning back in his chair, and fixing his eyes on the ceiling, as was his wont when deeply moved.
The friends looked at one another with questioning glances.
"Well," said Lothair at last, "it seems that somehow our meeting of to-night has fallen into a strange groove of ill-fortune, and it appears to be hopeless to expect any comfort or enjoyment out of it. Suppose we have a little music, and sing some absurd stuff or other as vilely as we can."
"Yes," said Theodore, "that is the thing." And he opened the piano. "If we don't manage a canon--which, according to Junker Tobias is a thing which can reel three souls out of a weaver's body--we will make it awful enough to be worthy of Signor Capuzzi and his friends. Suppose we sing an ItalianTerzetto buffoout of our own heads. I'll be the prima donna, and begin. Ottmar will be the lover, and Lothair had better be the comic old man, and come in, raging and swearing in rapid notes."
"But the words, the words," said Ottmar.
"Sing whatever you please," said Theodore; "Oh Dio! Addio! Lasciami mia Vita."
"No, no," cried Vincenz. "If you won't let me take part in your singing--although I feel that I possess a wonderful talent for it, which only wants the voice of a Catalani to produce itself in the work-a-day world with drastic effect, allow me at least to be your librettist--your poet-laureate. And here I hand you your libretto at once."
He had found on Theodore's writing-table the 'Indice de Teatrali Spettacoli' for 1791, and this he handed to Theodore. This indice, like all which appear yearly in Italy, merely contained a list of the titles of the operas performed, with the names of their composers, and of the singers, scene-painters, &c., concerned in their production. They opened the page which related to the opera in Milan, and it was decided that the prima donna should sing the names of the lover-tenors (with a due interspersing of Ah Dio's and Oh Cielo's), that the lover-tenor should sing the names of the prima donnas in like manner, and that the comic old man should come in, in his furious wrath, with the titles of the operas which had been given and an occasional burst of invective, appropriate to his character.
Theodore played aritornelloof the cut and pattern which occurs by the hundred in the opera buffas of the Italians, and then began to sing in sweet, tender strains "Lorenzo Coleoni! Gaspare Rossari! Oh Dio! Giuseppo Marelli! Francesco Sedini!" &c. Ottmar followed with "Giuditta Paracca! Teresa Ravini! Giovanna Velata--Oh Dio!" &c. And Lothair burst duly in with rapid, angry quavers: "Le Gare Generose, del Maestro Paesiello--Che vedo? La Donna di Spirito, del Maestro Mariella. Briconaccio! Piro, Re di Epiro! Maledetti!--del Maestro Zingarelli," &c.
This singing, which Lothair and Ottmar accompanied with appropriate gesticulations (Vincenz illustrating Theodore's impersonations with the most preposterous grimaces imaginable), warmed up the friends more and more. In a comic description of enthusiastic inspiration each seized the drift of the other's ideas. All the passages, imitations, &c. (to use musical expressions), usually employed in compositions of this description, were reproduced with the utmost accuracy--so that any one who had come in by accident would never have dreamt that this performance was improvised on the spur of the moment, even if the strange hotch-potch of names had struck him as curious.
Louder and more unrestrainedly raged this outbreak of Italianrabbia, until (as may be supposed), it culminated in a wild, universal burst of laughter, in which even Cyprian joined.
At their parting, on this evening, the friends were in a condition of wild enjoyment, rather than (as was the case on other occasions), lull of rational delight.
The Serapion Brethren had assembled for another meeting.
"I must be greatly mistaken," said Lothair, "and be anything but the possessor of a native genius (supplemented by assiduous practice) for physiognomy--such as I believe that I do possess, if I do not read very distinctly in the face of every one of us (not excepting my own, which I see magically gleaming at me in yonder mirror), that our minds are all fully charged with matter of importance, and only waiting for the word of command to fire it off. I am rather afraid that more than one of us may have got shut up in one or other of his productions one of those eccentric little firework devils which may come fizzling out, dart backwards and forwards about the room, banging and jumping, and not manage to pop out of the window until it has managed to give us all a good singeing. I even dread a continuation of our last conversation, and may Saint Serapion avert that from us! But lest we should fall immediately into those wild, seething waters, and that we may commence our meeting in a duly calm and rational frame of mind, I move that Sylvester begins by reading to us that story which we could not hear on the last occasion because there was no time left."
This proposal was unanimously agreed to.
"The woof which I have spun," said Sylvester, producing a manuscript, "is composed of many threads, of the most various shades, and the question in my mind is whether--on the whole--you will think it has proper colour and keeping. It was my idea that I should, perhaps, put some flesh and blood into what I must admit, is a rather feeble body, by contributing to it something out of a great, mysterious period--to which it really does but serve as a sort of framework."
Sylvester read:--
A tumble over a root as a portion of the system of the universe--Mignon and the gypsy from Lorca, in connection with General Palafox--A Paradise opened at Countess Walther Puck's.
"No!" said Ludwig to his friend Euchar, "no! There is no such lubberly, uncouth attendant on the goddess of Fortune as Herr Tieck has been pleased to introduce in the prologue to his second part of 'Fortunat,' who, in the course of his gyrations, upsets tables, smashes ink-bottles, and goes blundering into the President's carriage, hurting his head and his arm. No! For there is no such thing as chance. I hold to the opinion that the entire universe, and all that it contains, and all that comes to pass in it--the complete macrocosm--is like some large, very ingeniously constructed piece of clockwork-mechanism, which would necessarily come to a stop in a moment if any hostile principle, operating wholly involuntarily, were permitted to come in contact--in an opposing sense--with the very smallest of its wheels."
"I don't know, friend Ludwig," said Euchar, laughing, "how it is that you have come, all of a sudden, to adopt this wretched, mechanical theory--which is as old as the hills, and out of date long ago--disfiguring and distorting Goethe's beautiful notion of the red thread which runs all through our lives--in which, when we think about it in our more lucid moments, we recognize that higher Power which works above, and in us."
"I have the greatest objection to that simile," said Ludwig. "It is taken from the British navy. All through the smallest rope in their ships (I know this, of course, from the Wahlverwandschaften), runs a small red thread, which shows that the rope is Government property. No, my dear friend! Whatever happens is pre-ordained, from the beginning, as an essential necessity, just because it does happen. And this is the Mutual Interdependence of Things, upon which rests the principle of all being, of all existence. Because, as soon as you----"
However, it is necessary, at this point, to explain to the courteous reader that as Ludwig and Euchar were thus talking together, they were walking in an alley of the beautiful park at W----. It was a Sunday. Twilight was beginning to fall, the evening breeze was whispering in the branches which, reviving after the heat of the day, were exhaling gentle sighs. Among the woods were sounding the happy voices of townsfolk in their Sunday clothes, out for the afternoon, some of them lying in the sweet grass enjoying their simple supper, and others refreshing themselves in the various restaurants, in accordance with the winnings of their week.
Just as Ludwig was going on to explain more fully the profound theory of the mutual interdependence of things, he stumbled over the thick root of a tree, which (as he always wore spectacles) he had not seen; and he measured his length on the ground.
"Thatwas comprehended in the mutual interdependence of things," said Euchar gravely and quietly, lifting up his friend's hat and stick, and giving him his hand to help him on to his legs again. "If you had not pitched over in that absurd manner the world would have come to a stop at once."
But Ludwig felt his right knee so stiff that he was obliged to limp, and his nose was bleeding freely. This induced him to take his friend's advice and go into the nearest restaurant, though he generally avoided these places, particularly on Sundays. For the jubilations of the Sunday townsfolk were exceptionally displeasing to him, giving him a sensation of being in places which were not by any meansconvenable--at all events for people of his position.
In the front of this restaurant the people had formed a deep, many-tinted ring, from the interior of which there Bounded the tones of a guitar and a tambourine. Ludwig, assisted by his friend, went limping into the house, holding his handkerchief to his face. And he begged so pitifully for water, and a little drop of wine-vinegar, that the landlady, much alarmed, thought he must be at the point of death. Whilst he was being served with what he required, Euchar (on whom the sounds of the guitar and tambourine exercised an irresistible fascination) crept forth, and endeavoured to penetrate into the closed circle. He belonged to that restricted class of Nature's favourites whose exterior and whole being ensure a kindly reception everywhere, and in all circumstances. So that on this occasion some journeymen mechanics (people who are not usually much given to politeness of a Sunday) at once made room for him when he asked what was going forward, so that he as well as themselves might have a look at the strange little creature who was dancing and playing so prettily and cleverly. And a curious and delightful scene displayed itself to Euchar, which fettered all his mind and attention.
In the middle of the ring a girl with her eyes blindfolded was dancing the fandango amongst nine eggs, arranged three by three behind each other on the ground, and playing a tambourine as she danced. At one side stood a little deformed man, with an ill-looking gypsy face, playing the guitar. The girl who was dancing seemed to be about fifteen. She was oddly dressed in a red bodice, gold-embroidered, and a short white skirt trimmed with ribbons of various colours. Her figure and all her motions were the very ideal of elegance and grace. She brought the most marvellous variety of sounds out of her tambourine. Sometimes she would raise it above her head, and then hold it out in front of her or behind her, with her arms stretched out, in the most picturesque attitudes. Now it would sound like a far-off drum; now like the melancholy cooing of the turtle-dove, and presently like the distant roar of the approaching storm. All this was accompanied in the most delightful manner by the tinkling of the clear, harmonious bells. And the little guitar-player by no means fell short of her in virtuosity; for he, too, had quite a style of his own of treating his instrument--making the dance melody (which was a most characteristic one, wholly out of the common run of such things) predominate at times, loud and clear, and hushing it down at other times into a mysterious piano, striking the strings with the palms of his hand (as the Spaniards do in producing that peculiar effect), and presently dashing out bright-sounding, full harmonies. The tambourine went oncrescendo, as the guitar-strings clanged louder and louder, and the girl's boundings increased in their scope in a similar ratio. She would set down her foot within a hair's-breadth of the eggs with the most complete certainty and confidence, so that the spectators could not help crying out, thinking that one of those fragile things must infallibly be broken. Her black hair had fallen down, and it flew about her head, giving her much the effect of a Mænad. The little fellow cried out to her in Spanish, "Stop!" And on this, while still going on with her dance, she lightly touched each of the eggs, so that they rolled together into a heap; upon which, with a loud beat on her tambourine and a forcible chord on the guitar, she came to a sudden standstill, as if banned there by some spell. The dance was done.
The little fellow went up to her and undid the cloth which bound her eyes. She rolled up her hair, took the tambourine, and went round amongst the spectators, with downcast looks, to collect their contributions. Not one had slunk off out of the way. Every one, with a face of pleasure, put a piece of money into that tambourine. When she came to Euchar, and as he was going to put something into it, she made a sign of refusal.
"May not I give you anything?" he said.
She looked up at him, and the glowing fire of her loveliest of eyes flashed through the night of her black silken lashes.
"The old man," she said gravely--almost solemnly--in her deep voice, and with her foreign accent, "told me that you, sir, did not come till the best part of my dance was done; and so I ought not to take anything from you." Thus speaking she made Euchar a pretty courtesy, and went to the little man, taking the guitar from his hands, and going with him to a table at some distance.
When Euchar looked round him, he perceived Ludwig sitting not far off, between two respectable townsfolk, with a great glass of beer before him, making the most earnest signs. Euchar went to him, saying, with a laugh, "Why, Ludwig, when did you take to drinking beer?" Ludwig, however, made signals to him, and said, in meaning accents, "What do you say? Beer is one of the most delicious of drinks, and I delight in it above all things--when it is so magnificent as it is here."
The citizens rose, and Ludwig shook hands with them most politely, putting on a look which was half-pleased, half-annoyed, when they expressed at parting their regret for his mishap.
"You are always getting me into hot water with your want of tact," he said. "If I hadn't allowed myself to be treated to a glass of beer, if I hadn't managed to gulp the abominable trash down--those sturdy counter-jumpers would probably have been offended, and would have looked upon me as one of the profane. Then you must needs come and bring me into discredit, when I had been playing my part so very nicely."
"Well," said Euchar, "if you had been bowed out of their company, or even come in for a little touch of cudgelling, wouldn't it all have been a part of the mutual interdependence of things? But just listen as I tell you what a charming little drama your trip over the tree-root (predestined, according to the conditions of the Macrocosmus, to occur) gave me an opportunity of seeing."
And he told him about the charming egg dance by the Spanish girl. "Mignon!" cried Ludwig enthusiastically. "Heavenly, divine Mignon!"
The guitarist was sitting not far off, at a table, counting the receipts, and the girl was standing beside him, squeezing an orange into a glass of water. Presently the old man put the money together, and nodded to the girl with eyes sparkling with gladness, whilst she handed him the orange-water, and stroked his wrinkled cheeks. He gave a disagreeable, cackling laugh, and gulped down the liquid with every indication of thirst. The girl sat down and began tinkling on the guitar. "Oh Mignon!" cried Ludwig again. "Heavenly, divine Mignon! Ah, I shall rescue her, like another Wilhelm Meister, from the thraldom of this accursed miscreant who holds her in bondage!" "How do you know," asked Euchar, "that this little hunchback is an accursed miscreant?" "Cold creature!" answered Ludwig. "Cold, passionless creature, you understand nothing, you have no sympathy with anything, no sense of the genial, the imaginative. Don't you see--don't you comprehend how every description of the most insulting contempt, envious feeling, wickedness, ill-temper, and avarice of the vilest kind gleam out of the green, cat's-eyes of that little gypsy abortion--are legible in every wrinkle of his diabolical-looking face? Yes! I am going to rescue that beautiful child out of the clutches--the Satanic clutches--of that brown monster! If I could only have a talk with her, the little charmer!" "Nothing is easier than that," said Euchar, and he signed to her to come near.
The girl put the instrument down, came near, and made a reverence, casting her eyes modestly on the ground. "Mignon!" cried Ludwig. "Mignon! Sweet, beautiful creature!"
"I am called Emanuela," she said.
"And that horrible ruffian there," Ludwig went on, "where did he steal you from? How did you get into his clutches, poor thing?"
The girl lifted her eyes, and sending a beaming, serious glance through and through Ludwig, replied. "I don't understand you, sir. I don't know what you mean--why you ask me this?"
"You are a Spaniard, my child," Euchar began.
"I am," she answered, her voice trembling. "I am, indeed. You see me--you hear me. Why should I deny it?"
"Then, of course, you can play the guitar and sing a song?"
She covered her eyes with her hand, and said, in a scarce audible whisper, "Ah! I should like to play and singyouone. But my songs are burning hot; and here it is so cold--so cold!
"Do you know," said Euchar, speaking in Spanish, and in a heightened tone, "the songLaurel immortal?"
She clapped her hands, raised her glance to Heaven, tears filled her eyes; she flew to the table, seized the guitar, sprang, rather than walked back to the two friends, placed herself before Euchar, and began