“‘Certain of the Landgrave’s retainers who had been on warders’ duty at the castle said that, at the very time when Wolfframb of Eschinbach won the prize and conquered the ostensible Heinrich of Ofterdingen, a figure much resembling Master Klingsohr had been seen to dash out of the gateway on a foaming steed.

  “‘CONCLUSION.

  “‘Meanwhile Countess Mathilda had gone into the garden of the Wartburg, and Wolfframb of Eschinbach had followed her.

  “‘And when he found her there, seated on a flowery bank of moss, with hands folded in her lap and her lovely head drooping sadly towards the ground, he threw himself at her beloved feet, unable to utter a word. Mathilda put her arms about him, and both of them shed hot tears of sweet sorrow and lovers’ pain.

  “‘“Ah! Wolfframb,” she cried, “what an evil dream has befooled me! How have I, a foolish, unreasoning, blinded child, abandoned myself to the snares of the Evil One who was lying in wait to compass my destruction! Ah! how I have failed in my duty to you! Is it possible that you can pardon me?”

  “‘Wolfframb clasped her to his heart, and, for the first time, pressed burning kisses on her rosy lips. He assured her that she had always dwelt in his heart, that he had ever been faithful to her in spite of the powers of evil; that it was she, the lady of his thoughts, alone, who had been his inspiration in the song with which he vanquished them.

  “‘“Oh, my beloved!” she said, “let me tell you in what a wonderful manner you rescued me from the snares of the Wicked One which were set for me. There came a night, not very long ago, when strange and terrible ideas took hold upon me. Whether it was bliss or pain that so powerfully oppressed me that I scarce could breathe, I cannot tell. But, driven by an impulse which I could not resist, I began to write a song which was altogether in the ‘manner’ of my weird master. As I wrote, I heard a strange music, partly beautiful, partly repulsive and horrible, which benumbed my senses, and it was as if, instead of the song, what I had written was some terrible formula, some spell which the powers of darkness must obey. A wild, terrible form started up; it clasped me with burning arms, and was carrying me away to the black abyss. Then a song came shining through the darkness, whose tones had the mild, soft radiance of the light of stars. At this the dark form was compelled to loose its clasp of me, yet it stretched its arms towards me in fury. It could not touch me, but only the song I had been writing. It clutched that, and plunged screaming with it into the abyss. It was your song which saved me, the same which you sung to-day when you won the contest. Now I am wholly yours. My songs are all faithful love for you, whose inexpressible blissfulness no words have power to tell.”

  “‘The lovers again fell into each other’s arms, and could not cease talking of the tortures they had undergone, and the bliss of their reunion.

  “‘But in the night when Wolfframb overcame Nasias, Mathilda had distinctly heard, and comprehended — in a dream — the song which Wolfframb, in the height of his inspired affection, was singing; the one which he repeated afterwards at the Wartburg contest.

  “‘Wolfframb was sitting in his chamber at late eventide thinking of new songs, when his landlord Gottschalk came in full of joy, crying:

  “‘“Ah! noble sir, how you have vanquished the Evil One by the power of your art and skill! The horrible writing in your chamber has gone out of its own accord, God be praised and thanked for the same! I have brought something which was left at my house to be conveyed to you.” With which he produced a folded letter, well sealed with wax. It was from Heinrich of Ofterdingen, and to the following effect.

  “‘“I greet you, my trusty Wolfframb, as one who has recovered from some terrible sickness which threatened his death. Many marvellous things have happened to me. But I would fain keep silence as to the evils of a time, which lies behind me now like a dark, impenetrable mystery. Doubtless you remember the words you spoke, when I was boasting of the inward power which elevated me above you and the other masters. You said then, that perhaps I should find myself on the brink of some terrible abyss, a prey to giddiness, ready to fall down into it; and that then you would hold me back with your strong arms. Wolfframb, that which your prophetic soul foresaw, was that which came to pass! I stood on the brink of an abyss, and you held me fast when the fatal giddiness had wellnigh benumbed my senses. It was your splendid victory which annihilated my adversary, and restored me to life and happiness. Yes, Wolfframb! before your love the mighty veils which enwrapped me fell away, and I looked up again to the bright heavens. Can my affection for you be otherwise than redoubled? You recognized Klingsohr as a great master — and that he is. But woe to him who — not endowed with that peculiar strength which he possesses — ventures, like him, to strive towards the dark realm, which he has laid open to himself. I have renounced him, and totter on the brink of the Hell-river, helpless and wretched, no longer. I am restored to the joys of home.

  “‘“Mathilda, ah no! Doubtless it was never that glorious lady. It was some foul enchantment, which filled me with deceptive visions of a paradise on earth — of vain, mundane pleasure. May all that I did in my days of madness be forgotten. Greet the masters, and tell them how it is with me now. Fare thee well, most sincerely beloved Wolfframb. Peradventure you may hear tidings of me ere long.”

  “‘After some time news came to the Wartburg that Heinrich was at the Court of Leopold the Seventh, Duke of Austria, singing many beautiful songs. Soon afterwards Landgrave Hermann received copies of the same, together with the “manners” to which they were to be sung. All the masters were heartily delighted, and convinced that Heinrich of Ofterdingen had renounced all that was false, and preserved his pure singer’s heart inviolate, through all the Evil One’s attempts upon him.

  “‘Thus it was Wolfframb of Eschinbach’s high art of song, as it streamed from the depths of his purest of souls, which, in glorious victory over his enemy, rescued his beloved and his friend from utter perdition.’”

  The friends gave diverse verdicts as to Cyprian’s tale, Theodore disapproved of it altogether, and said Cyprian had utterly marred for him the beautiful picture, which Novalis had drawn of the grandly inspired Heinrich of Ofterdingen. But his chief objection was that the singers never actually got the length of any singing, for sheer continual preparation to sing. Ottmar supported him; but, at the same time, considered that the introductory vision might be admitted to be Serapiontic; although, at the same time, Cyprian ought to be careful for the future not to dip into Ancient Chronicles, because reading of that sort was apt — as the present instance proved — to lead him into an unfamiliar province, in which — not being native to the soil, nor endowed with a strong bump of locality — he wandered astray and lost himself, without being able to find the real path.

  Cyprian, putting on a face of vexation, jumped hastily up, went to the fire, and was going to throw his manuscript into it. But Lothair went up to him, seized him by the shoulders, turned him about, and said with solemnity:

  “Cyprian, Cyprian! withstand strenuously the foul fiend of author’s pride, which, is vexing you, and whispering all manner of ugly things in your ear. I will address you in the formula of conjuration employed by the doughty Tobias von Ruelp, ‘Come, come — tuck, tuck — it is contrary to all respectability, man, to play at pitch and toss with the Devil. Away with the ugly sweep!’ Ha! your face lightens up! You are smiling! See what power over the demons I possess; and now I have some healing balm to drop upon the wounds, which your friends’ adverse verdicts have inflicted. If Ottmar thinks your introduction is Serapiontic, I may say as much for Klingsohr, and the fiery demon Nasias. Also the little automatic secretary strikes me as by no means lightly to be esteemed. If Theodore objects to the way in which you have portrayed Heinrich of Ofterdingen, at all events the suggestion of your portrait of him is to be found in Wagenseil. If he thinks it a fault that the singers never arrive at any actual singing from continual preparation for the same, I must confess that I do not quite know what he means. Perhaps he does not quite know, himself, what he means. I should scarcely think he would have wished you to introduce little verses of poetry, as being the masters’ songs. The very fact of your not having done so, but left their words to our imaginations, redounds greatly to your credit in my opinion. I can never tolerate the introducing of verses into a story. They always seem to go along in it so lamely and limpingly, and interrupt its progress in an unnatural sort of manner. The writer — keenly impressed with the feebleness of his matter at some particular point — grasps at the crutch of verse. But if he manages, in this fashion, to prop himself along for a time, this sort of uniform, monotonous, tottery, pit-a-pat movement is very different from the firm tread of vigorous health; and, probably, it is a frequent error of our modern writers, that they seek their salvation exclusively in the outward, metrical form, forgetting that it is the poetic matter only which gives the metric pinions their due swing. Well-sounding verses have the power of inducing a species of somnambulistic intoxication; but this is very much like the effect of the sound of a mill, or of other similar, regular and monotonous noises. They procure one a sound sleep. All this I merely say en passant, for the behoof of our musical Theodore, who is very often deluded (‘bribed’ was the word I was going to employ) by the sweet sound of meaningless verses; and, indeed, he is often attacked by a sort of ‘sonnetical’ mania, under the influence of which he brings into the world the strangest automaton-like little monsters. But now for you again, Cyprian. I do not think you ought to plume yourself much on your ‘Singers’ Contest.’ I cannot say that I am altogether satisfied with it, though it certainly does not deserve death by fire. The laws of the land declare that abortions are not to be put to death if they have human heads; and in my opinion, this child of yours is not only not an abortion at all, but it is fairly well-shapen, though it may be a little weak about the limbs.”

  Cyprian pocketed his manuscript, and said, with a smile:

  “My dear friends, you know my little peculiarity. When I get a little annoyed, because some fault is found with any of my feeble efforts, this is merely because I am so well aware how thoroughly the censure is deserved, and how much my productions merit it. Do not let us say another word on the subject of this story of mine.”

  After this the friends went back to the subject of Vincent, and his bent towards the marvellous. Cyprian’s view was, that such a bent must of necessity be inherent in all poetic temperaments, and that this was why Jean Paul has said so many magnificent things on the subject of mesmerism, that a whole universe of hostile doubt would sink into insignificance in comparison with them; that poetical persons are the pet children of Nature, and that it is silly to suppose she can be displeased when those darlings of hers try to discover secrets which she has shrouded with her veil — as a fond mother hides from her children some valuable gift, only that she may afford them the greater pleasure by disclosing it to them.

  “But, to speak practically,” said Cyprian, “and this principally to please you, Ottmar: who that has looked carefully into the history of the human race — can have failed to be struck by the circumstance that, as soon as some disease makes its appearance like a ravening monster, Nature herself comes to the front with the weapons necessary to vanquish it; and, as soon as it has been overcome, another monster makes its appearance, with fresh powers of destruction; and new weapons are discovered again? And so goes on the everlasting contest which is a condition of the process of life — of the organic structure of the entire world. How if, in these times, when everything is spiritualized — when the interior relationship, the mysterious interdependence and interplay of the physical and psychical principles, are coming more and more clearly and importantly into evidence; when every bodily malady is found to have its corresponding expression in the psychic organism — how, I say, if mesmerism were the weapon — forged in the spirit — which Nature herself presents to us, as the means of combatting the evil which is located in the spirit?”

  “Stay, stay!” cried Lothair, “where are we getting to? We have talked far too much already on a subject which must always remain a foreign province for us; in which we can, at most, pluck for poetic purposes a few fruits, tempting by their colour and aroma; or transplant a pretty little tree or so into our poetic garden. I was delighted when Cyprian’s story interrupted our wearisome discussion on this subject, and now we seem to be in danger of getting deeper into it than ever. Let us turn to something else. But wait a moment. First, I should like to give you a little ‘pezzo’ of our friend’s mystical experiments, which I am sure you will enjoy. It is briefly this: — A considerable time ago I was invited to a little evening gathering, where our friend was, along with some others. I was detained by business, and did not arrive till very late. All the more surprised was I not to hear the very slightest sound as I came up to the door of the room. Could it be that nobody had been able to go? Thus cogitating, I gently opened the door. There sat Vincent, over against me, with the others, round a little table; and they were all staring, stiff and motionless like so many statues, in the profoundest silence, up at the ceiling. The lights were on a table at some distance, and nobody took any notice of me, I went nearer, full of amazement, and saw a glittering gold ring swinging backwards and forwards in the air, and presently beginning to move in circles. One and another then said, ‘Wonderful!’ ‘Very wonderful!’ ‘Most inexplicable!’ ‘Curious thing!’ etc. I could no longer contain myself, and cried out, ‘For Heaven’s sake, tell me what you are about?’

  “At this they all jumped up. But Vincent cried, in that shrill voice of his:

  “‘Recreant! obscure Nicodemus, coming slinking in like a sleep-walker, interrupting the most important and interesting experiments. Let me tell you that a phenomenon which the incredulous have, without a moment’s hesitation, classed in the category of the fabulous has just been verified by the present company. We wished to try whether the pendulum-oscillations of a suspended ring could be controlled by the concentrated human will. I undertook to fix my will upon it; and thought steadfastly of circular-shaped oscillations. The ring — fixed to the ceiling by a silk thread — remained motionless for a very long time. But at last it began to swing, in an acute angle with reference to my position, and it was just beginning to swing in circles when you came in and interrupted us.’”

  “‘But what if it were not your will,’ I said, so ‘much as the draught of air when I opened the door, which set the contumacious ring in motion?’

  “‘Prosaic wretch!’ cried Vincent: but everybody laughed.”

  “The pendulum-oscillations of rings drove me nearly crazy at one time,” said Theodore. “Thus much is matter of absolute certainty, and any one can convince himself of it, that the oscillations of a plain gold ring, suspended by a fine thread over the palm of the hand held level, unquestionably take the direction which the unuttered will directs them to take. I cannot tell you how profoundly, and how eerily, this phenomenon affected me. I used to sit for hours at a time making the ring go swinging in the most various directions, as I willed it to do; and at last I went the length of making a regular oracle of it. I would say, in my mind, if such and such a thing is going to happen, the ring will swing in the direction between the little finger and the thumb; if it is not going to happen, it will swing at right angles to that direction, and so on.”’

  “Delightful!” said Lothair, “you set up, within your own self, a higher spiritual principle, which, conjured up in mystic fashion by yourself, should make utterances to you. Here we have the true “spiritus familiaris,” the socratic dæmon! from hence there is only a very short step to the region of ghost, and haunting stories, which might easily have their raison d’être in the influence of some exterior spiritual principle.”

  “And I mean to actually take this step,” said Cyprian, “by telling you, on the spot, the most awful and terrible supernatural story I have ever heard of. The peculiarity of this story is, that it is amply vouched for by persons of credibility, and that the manner in which it has been brought to my knowledge, or recollection, has to do with the excited, or (if you prefer to say so) disordered condition which Lothair observed me to be in a short time ago.”

  Cyprian stood up; and, as was his habit when his mind was full of something, so that he had to take a little time to arrange his words in order to express it, he walked several times up and down the room. Presently he sat down, and began: —

  “You may remember that some little time ago, just before the last campaign, I was paying a visit to Colonel Von P —— at his country house. The colonel was a good-tempered, jovial man, and his wife quietness and simpleness personified. At the time I speak of the son was away with the army, so that the family circle consisted, besides the colonel and his lady, of two daughters, and an elderly French lady, who was trying to persuade herself that she was fulfilling the duties of a species of governess though the young ladies appeared to be beyond the period of being “governessed.” The elder of the two was a most lively and cheerful creature, vivacious even to ungovernability; not without plenty of brains, but so constituted that she could not go five yards without cutting at least three “entrechats.” She sprung, in the same fashion, in her conversation, and in all that she did, restlessly from one thing to another. I myself have seen her, within the space of five minutes, work at needlework, read, draw, sing, and dance, or cry about her poor cousin who was killed in battle, one moment, and while the bitter tears were still in her eyes, burst into a splendid, infectious burst of laughter when the French-woman spilt the contents of her snuff-box over the pug, who at once began to sneeze frightfully, and the old lady cried, “Ah, che fatalita! Ah carino! Poverino!”

 

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