“It was the face of a child that was looking at me out of that stone, marked with the heartrending anguish of the agony of death. I could see drops of blood welling from the breast; but the rest of the form of the body seemed to flow vaguely into indistinctness, as if a stream of water were carrying it away. It was with a hard struggle that I overcame the horror which well-nigh overmastered me. I could not bring myself to utter a word. We left that terrible, mysterious place in silence. Not till I had walked about in the park and the lawns for some time could I overcome the inexplicable feeling which had so annulled my enjoyment of that little earthly paradise. From many things which I gathered from the detached utterances of the old man, I was led to conclude that the crazy being who had thrust herself into such intimate relations with the last proprietor of the place (in other respects a large-hearted and cultivated man) had worked upon him by promising him, through the exercise of her accursed arts, the fulfilment of his dearest wishes — unfailing and everlasting happiness in love — and so led him on to unutterable crime.”

  “This is an affair for Cyprian,” Ottmar said. “He would be as delighted over the bleeding baby in the marble, and in the old Castellan, as we.” “Well,” Theodore went on to say, “although all this affair may be traceable to foolish fancies — although it may be nothing but a fable kept up by the people — still, if that strangely-veined slab of marble is capable, even under the influence of a lively imagination, of showing the lineaments of a bleeding baby when looked at closely and carefully, something uncanny must have happened, or the faithful old servant could not have felt his master’s guilt so deeply in his heart, nor would that strange stone give such a terrible evidence of it.”

  Ottmar said, replying, “We will take an early opportunity of laying this matter before Saint Serapion, that we may ascertain exactly how it stands; but for the time, I think we ought to let witches alone, and go back to our subject of the ‘German Devil,’ as to which I would fain say a word or two. What I am driving at is — that the characteristic German manner of treating this subject is seen in its truest colour when it is a question of the Devil’s manner of conducting himself in ordinary everyday life. Whenever he takes part in that, he is thoroughly ‘up’ in every description of evil and mischief — in everything that is terrible and alarming. He is always on the alert to set traps for the good, so as to lead as many of them as possible over to his own kingdom; but yet he is a thoroughly fair and honourably-dealing personage, abiding by his compacts and contracts in the most accurate and punctilious manner. From this it results that he is often outwitted, so that he appears in the character of a ‘stupid’ Devil (and this is not improbably the origin of the common expression ‘stupid devil’); but, besides all this, the character of the German Satan has a strong tincture of the burlesque mixed up with the more predominant quality of mind-disturbing terror — that horror which oppresses the mind and disorganizes it. Now, the art of portraying the Devil in this distinctively German fashion seems to be very much lost. For this aforesaid amalgamation of his characteristics does not seem to occur in any of the more recent attempts at representing him. He is either shown as a mere buffoon, or as a being so terrible that the mind is revolted by him.”

  “I think,” said Lothair, “you are forgetting one recent story in which this said mingling of the brightly Intellectual (verging sometimes on the comic) with the Terrific is very finely managed, and in which the full effectiveness of the old-world sort of devil-spook-story is carried out in a masterly manner. I mean Fouqué’s splendid tale, the ‘Galgenmännlein.’1 The terribly vivacious little creature in the phial — who comes out of it at night, and lays himself down on the breast of that master of his, who has such awful dreams — the fearsome man in the mountain glen, with his great coal-black steed which crawls up the perpendicular cliffs like a fly on a wall — in short, all the uncanny and supernatural elements which are present in the story in such plentiful measure — together rivet and strain the attention to an extent absolutely frightening; it affects one like some powerful drink, which immensely excites the senses and at the same time sheds a beneficent warmth through the heart. It is owing to the tone which pervades it all through, and to the vividness of the separate pictures, that, although at the end one is thoroughly delighted that the poor wretch does get out of the Devil’s clutches, still, the element of the Intellectuality of the evil beings, and the scenes which touch upon the realm of comedy (such as the part about the ‘Half Heller’) stand out with the principal high-lights upon them. I scarcely can think of any tale of diablerie which has produced such an impression upon me.”

  “There can’t be much doubt,” said Theodore, “that Fouqué got the materials for that story out of some old chronicle.”

  “Even if he did,” Lothair said, “I should hope you wouldn’t detract from the author’s merit on that score, like the more common class of critics, whose peculiar system obliges them always to try and find out the fundamental materials from which a writer has ‘taken’ his work. They make immense capital out of pointing out said source, and look down with great contempt on the wretched author who merely kneads his characters together out of a pre-existent dough. As if it mattered that the author absorbed into himself germs from without him! The shaping of the material is the important part of the business. We ought to think of our Patron Saint Serapion. His stories were told out of his soul as he had seen them with his eyes, not as he had read about them.”

  “You do me much injustice, Lothair,” said Theodore, “if you suppose I am of any other opinion. And there is nobody who has shown more admirably how a subject may be vividly represented than Heinrich Kleist in his tale of Kohlhaas, the horse dealer.”

  “However,” said Lothair, “as we have been talking of Hafftitz’s book, I should like to read to you a story of which I took most of the leading ideas from the Michrochronicon. I wrote it during an attack of a very queer mood of mind, which beset me for a very considerable time. And I hope, Ottmar, my dear friend, it will lead you to admit that the ‘spleen,’ which Theodore says I am suffering from, is not so very serious as he would make it out to be.”

  He took out a manuscript, and read:

  ALBERTINE’S WOOERS.

  (A STORY IN which many utterly improbable adventures happen.)

  CHAPTER I.

  Which treats of Sweethearts, Weddings, Clerks of the Privy Chancery, Perturbations, Witchcraft Trials, and other delectable matters.

  On the night of the autumnal equinox, Mr. Tussmann, a clerk in the Privy Chancery, was making his way from the café, where he was in the habit of passing an hour or two regularly every evening, towards his lodgings in Spandau Street. The Clerk of the Privy Chancery was excessively regular and punctilious in every action of his life. He always had just done taking off his coat and his boots at the exact moment when the clocks of St. Mary’s and St. Nicholas’s churches struck eleven; so that, as the reverberating echo of the last stroke died away, he always drew his nightcap over his ears, and placed his feet in his roomy slippers.

  On the night we are speaking of he, in order not to be late in going through those ceremonies (for the clocks were just going to strike eleven), was just going to turn out of King Street, round the corner of Spandau Street, with a rapid sweep — almost to be denominated a jump — when the sound of a strange sort of knocking somewhere in his immediate proximity rivetted him to the spot.

  And he became aware that, down at the bottom of the Town-house Tower — rendered visible by the light of the neighbouring lamp — there was a tall, meagre figure standing, wrapped in a dark cloak, knocking louder and louder on the closed shutters of Mr. Warnatz, the ironmonger’s shop (which, as everybody knows, is therein situated); knocking louder and louder, and then going back a few paces and sighing profoundly, gazing up as he did so at the windows of the Tower, which were shut.

  “My dear sir,” said the Clerk of the Privy Chancery, addressing this personage in a civil and courteous manner, “you are evidently under some misapprehension. There is not a single human creature up in that Tower; and indeed — if we except a certain number of rats and mice, and a few little owls — not a living thing. If you wish to provide yourself with something superior in the hardware line from Warnatz’s celebrated emporium here, you will have to take the trouble to come back in the forenoon.”

  “Respected Herr Tussmann — —” the stranger began.

  And Tussmann chimed in with “Clerk of the Privy Chancery, of many years seniority.” He was a little annoyed, too — astonished, at all events — that the stranger seemed to know him. But the latter did not seem to mind that in the least, but recommenced:

  “Respected Herr Tussmann, you are kind enough to be making a complete mistake as to the nature of my proceedings here. I do not want ironmongery or hardware of any description; neither have I anything to do with Mr. Warnatz. This is the night of the autumnal equinox, and I want to see my future wife! She has heard my ardent and longing summons, and my sighs of affection, and she will come and show herself up at that window directly.”

  The hollow tones in which the man spoke these words had about them something so solemn — nay, so spectral and supernatural — that the Clerk of the Privy Chancery felt an icy shudder run through his veins. The first stroke of eleven rung down from the tower of St. Mary’s, and as it did so, there came a clattering and a clinking up at the broken old window of the Tower, and a female form became visible at it. As the bright light of the street lamps fell upon the face of this figure, Tussmann whimpered out in lamentable tones, “Oh, ye just powers! — Oh, ye heavenly hosts! — what — what is this?”

  At the last stroke of eleven — that is, at the moment when Tussmann generally put on his nightcap — the female figure vanished.

  This extraordinary apparition seemed to drive the Clerk of the Privy Chancery completely out of his senses. He sighed, groaned, gazed up at the window, and whispered “Tussmann! Tussmann! Clerk of the Privy Chancery — bethink yourself, sir! Consider what you’re about. Don’t let your heart be troubled. Be not deceived by Satan, good soul.”

  “You seem to be put out by what you have seen, Mr. Tussmann,” the stranger said. “I only wanted to see my sweetheart — my wife, that is to be. You must have seen something else, apparently.”

  “Please, please,” Tussmann said in a whimper, “I should be so much obliged to you if you would be good enough to address me by my little title. I am Clerk of the Privy Chancery, and truly, at this moment, a greatly perturbed Clerk of the Privy Chancery — in fact, one almost out of his senses. I beg you, with all due respect, my very dear sir (though I regret that I am unable to style you by your proper title, as I have not the honour to be in the least acquainted with you, having never met you before — however, I shall address you as ‘Herr Geheimer Rath’— ‘Mr. Privy Councillor’ — there are such an extraordinary number of gentlemen here in Berlin bearing that title that one can scarcely be in error in applying it) — I beg you, therefore, Herr Geheimer Rath, to be so very kind as not to keep me longer in ignorance as to whom the lady, your future wife, may be, whom you expected to see here at this hour of the night.”

  “You’re a curious fellow, you and your ‘titles,’” the stranger said, raising his voice. “If a man who knows a number of secrets and mysteries, and can give good counsel too, is one of your ‘privy’ or ‘secret’ councillors, I think I may so style myself. I am surprised that a gentleman who is so well versed in ancient writings and curious manuscripts as you are, dear Mr. Tussmann, Clerk of the Privy Chancery, should not know that when an expert — an expert, observe! — knocks at the door of this Tower here — or even on the wall of it, on the night of the autumnal equinox, there will appear to him, up at yonder window, the girl who is to be the happiest and luckiest sweetheart in Berlin till the spring equinox comes round.”

  “Mr. Privy Councillor,” Tussmann cried, as if in a sudden inspiration, and with joyful rapture— “Most respected Mr. Privy Councillor! is that really the case?”

  “It is,” said the stranger. “But what’s the good of our standing in the street here any longer? It is past your bed time. Let us go to the new wine-shop in Alexander Street; just that you may hear a little more about this young lady, and recover your peace of mind, which something — I have no idea what — has disturbed so tremendously.”

  Tussmann was a most abstemious person. His sole recreation (for “dissipation” we cannot term it) consisted in his spending an hour or two every evening in a café; where, whilst he read assiduously political and other articles in newspapers, as well as books which he brought with him, he sipped a glass of good beer. Wine he seldom touched, except that after service on Sundays he allowed himself a small glass of Malaga with a biscuit, in a certain restaurant. To go about dissipating at nights was an abomination in his eyes. So that it seemed incomprehensible how, on this particular occasion, he allowed the stranger, who hurried away towards Alexander Street with long strides, resounding in the darkness, to carry him away with him without a word of objection.

  When they came into the wine-shop there was nobody there but one single customer, sitting by himself at a table, with a big glass of Rhine wine before him. The depth of the wrinkled lines on his face indicated extreme age. His eyes were sharp and piercing, and his grand beard marked him as a Hebrew, faithful to the ancient laws and customs of his people. Also his costume was very much in the old Frankish style, as people dressed about the year 1720; and perhaps that was why he had the effect of having come back to life out of a period of remote antiquity.

  But the stranger whom Tussmann had come across was still more remarkable of aspect.

  A tall, meagre man, powerfully formed as to his limbs and muscles, seemingly about fifty years of age. His face might once have passed for handsome, and the great eyes still flashed out from under the black bushy eyebrows with youthful fire and vigour. The brow was broad and open; the nose strongly aquiline. All this would not have distinguished him from a thousand others. But, whilst his coat and trousers were of the fashion of the present day, his collar, his cloak, and his barret cap belonged to the latter part of the sixteenth century. But it was more especially the wonderful eyes of the man, and the blaze of them (which seemed to come streaming out of deep mysterious night), and the hollow tones of his voice, and his whole bearing — all in the most absolute contrast with things of the present day — it was, we say, all these things taken together which made everybody experience a strong sense of eeriness in his proximity.

  He nodded to the man who was sitting at the table as if to an old acquaintance.

  “Ha!” he cried, “here you are again, after all this time. How do you feel? Are you all alive and kicking?”

  “Just as you see,” the old man growled. “Sound as a roach. All ready on my legs at the proper time. All there — when there’s anything up.”

  “I’m not quite so sure about that,” the stranger said, laughing loudly; “we shall see!” And he ordered the waiter to bring a bottle of the oldest claret in the cellar.

  “My good Mr. Privy Councillor,” Tussmann began, deprecatingly. But the stranger interrupted him hastily, saying:

  “Let us drop the ‘titles,’ Tussmann, for once and all! I am neither a Privy Councillor nor a Clerk of the Privy Council. What I am is an artist, a worker in the noble metals and the precious jewels; and my name is Leonhard.”

  “Oh, indeed!” Tussmann murmured to himself— “a goldsmith! a jeweller!” And he bethought himself that he might have seen at the first glance that the stranger could not possibly be an ordinary Privy Councillor, seeing that he had on an antique mantle, collar, and barret cap, such as Privy Councillors never went about in nowadays. Leonhard and Tussmann sat down at the same table with the old Jew, who received them with a grinning kind of smile.

  When Tussmann, at Leonhard’s instigation, had taken two or three glasses of the full-bodied wine, his pale cheeks began to glow, and as he swallowed the liquor, he glanced about him with smirks and smiles, as if the most delightful ideas were rising in his brain.

  “And now,” Leonhard said, “tell me openly and candidly, Mr. Tussmann, why you went on in such an extraordinary manner when the lady showed herself at the Tower-window; and what it is that your head is so very full of at the present moment. You and I are very old acquaintances, whether you believe it or not; and as to this old gentleman here, you need be on no ceremony with him.”

 

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