We didn’t converse right away, for the stranger was preoccupied with some strange plants which he took out of a little botanical case and started to examine closely. I indicated my astonishment at the plants and asked him, since they seemed freshly gathered, whether he had been at the botanical garden or Boucher the florist’s. He smiled in a strange way, and replied slowly, “Botany does not seem to be your speciality, or else you would not have asked such a...” he hesitated and I supplied in a low voice, “foolish. . .” “...question,” he finished, waving aside my assertion. “If you were a botanist, you would have seen at a glance that these are alpine flora and that they are from Chimborazo.” He said the last part very softly, and you can guess that I felt a little strange. This reply prevented further questions, but I kept having the feeling more and more strongly that I knew him-perhaps not “physically” but “mentally.”

  At this point there came another rapping at the window. The tavern keeper opened the door and a voice called in, “Be so good as to cover your mirrors.

  “Aha!” said the host, “General Suvarov is late tonight,” and he threw a cloth covering over the mirror. A short, dried-up-looking fellow came tumbling in with frantic, clumsy haste. He was engulfed in a cloak of peculiar brownish color, which bubbled and flapped around him as he bounced across the room toward us, so that in the dim light it looked as if a series of forms were dissolving and emerging from one another, as in Ensler’s magic lantern show. He rubbed his hands together inside his overlong sleeves and cried, “Cold! Cold! It’s so cold! Altogether different in Italy.” Finally he took a seat between me and the tall man and said, “Horrible smoke.., tobacco on tobacco... I wish I had a pipeful.”

  In my pocket I had a small steel tobacco box, polished like a mirror; I reached it out to the little man. He took one look at it, and thrust out both hands, shoving it away, crying, “Take that damned mirror away.” His voice was filled with horror, and as I stared at him with amazement I saw that he had become a different person. He had burst into the beer cellar with a pleasant, youthful face, but now a deathly pale, shrivelled, terrified old man’s face glared at me with hollow eyes. I turned in horror to the tall man. I was almost ready to shout, “For God’s sake, look at him!” when I saw that the tall stranger was not paying any attention, but was completely engrossed in his plants from Chimborazo. At that moment the little man called, “Northern wine!” n a veriy affected manner.

  After a time the conversation became more lively again. I wasn’t quite at ease with the little man, but the tall man had the ability of offering deep and fascinating insights upon seemingly insignificant things, although at times he seemed to struggle to express himself and groped for words, and at times used words improperly, which often gave his statements an air of droll originality. In this way, by appealing to me more and more, he offset the bad impression created by the little man.

  The little man seemed to be driven by springs, for he slid back and forth on his chair and waved his hands about in perpetual gesticulations, and a shudder, like icewater down my back, ran through me when I saw very clearly that he had two different faces, the pleasant young man’s and the unlovely demonic old man’s. For the most part he turned his old man’s face upon the tall man, who sat impervious and quiet, in contrast to the perpetual motion of the small man in brown, although it was not as unpleasant as when it had looked at me for the first time.-In the masquerade of life our true inner essence often shines out beyond our mask when we meet a similar person, and it so happened that we three strange beings in a beer cellar looked at one another and knew what we were. Our conversation ran along morbid lines, in the sardonic humor that emerges only when you are wounded, almost to the point of death.

  “There are hidden hooks and snares there, too,” said the tall man.

  “Oh, God,” I joined in, “the Devil has set so many hooks for us everywhere, walls, arbors, hedge roses, and so on, and as we brush past them we leave something of our true self caught there. It seems to me, gentlemen, that all of us lose something this way, just as right now I have no hat or coat. They are both hanging on a hook at the Justizrat’s, as you may know.”

  Both the tall and the short man visibly winced, as if they had been unexpectedly struck. The little man looked at me with hatred from his old man’s face, leaped up on his chair and fussily adjusted the cloth that hung over the mirror, while the tall man made a point of pinching the candle wicks. The conversation limped along, and in its course a fine young artist named Philipp was mentioned, together with a portrait of a princess painted with intense love and longing, which she must have inspired in him. “More than just a likeness, a true image,” said the tall man.

  “So completely true,” I said, “that you could almost say it was stolen from a mirror.”

  The little man leaped up in a frenzy, and transfixing me with his flaming eyes, showing his old man’s face, he screamed, “That’s idiotic, crazy-who can steal your reflection? Who? Perhaps you think the Devil can? He would break the glass with his clumsy claws and the girl’s fine white hands would be slashed and bloody. Erkhhhh. Show me a reflection, a stolen reflection, and I’ll leap a thousand yards for you, you stupid fool!”

  The tall man got up, strode over to the little man, and said in a contemptuous voice, “Don’t make such a nuisance of yourself, my friend, or I’ll throw you out and you’ll be as miserable as your own reflection.”

  “Ha, ha, ha,” laughed the little man with furious scorn. “You think so? Do you think so? You miserable dog, I at least still have my shadow, I still have my shadow!” And he leaped out of his chair and rushed out of the cellar. I could hear his nasty neighing laughter outside, and his shouts of “I still have my shadow!”

  The tall man, as if completely crushed, sank back into his chair as pale as death. He took his head in both his hands and sighed deeply and groaned. “What’s wrong?” I asked sympathetically. “Sir,” he replied somewhat incoherently, “that nasty little fellow-followed me here, even in this tavern, where I used to be alone-nobody around, except once in a while an earth-elemental would dive under the table for bread crumbs-he’s made me miserable-there’s no getting it back-I’ve lost ... I’ve lost ... my...oh, I can’t go on...” and he leaped up and dashed out into the street.

  He happened to pass the lights, and I saw that-he cast no shadow! I was delighted, for I recognized him and knew all about him. I ran out after him. “Peter Schlemihl, Peter Schlemihl.”

  I shouted. But he had kicked off his slippers, and I saw him striding away beyond the police tower, disappearing into the night.

  I was about to return to the cellar, but the owner slammed the door in my face, proclaiming loudly, “From guests like these the Good Lord deliver me!”

  MANIFESTATIONS

  Herr Mathieu is a good friend of mine and his porter keeps his eyes open. He opened the door for me right away when I came to the Golden Eagle and pulled at the bell. I explained matters: that I had been to a party, had left my hat and coat behind, that my house key was in my coat pocket, and that I had no chance of waking my deaf landlady. He was a goodhearted fellow (the porter) and found a room for me, set lights about in it, and wished me a good night. A beautiful wide mirror, however, was covered, and though I don’t know why I did it, I pulled off the cloth and set both my candles on the table in front of the mirror. When I looked in, I was so pale and tired-looking that I could hardly recognize myself. Then it seemed to me that from the remote background of the reflection there came floating a dark form, which as I focused my attention upon it, took on the features of a beautiful woman-Julia-shining with a magic radiance. I said very softly, “Julia, Julia!”

  At this I heard a groaning and moaning which seemed to come from behind the drawn curtains of a canopy bed which stood in the farthest corner of the room. I listened closely. The groaning grew louder, seemingly more painful. The image of Julia had disappeared, and resolutely I seized a candle, ripped the curtains of the bed apart, and looked in. How can I describe my feelings to you when I saw before me the little man whom I had met at the beer cellar, asleep on the bed, youthful features dominant (though contorted with pain), muttering in his sleep, “Giuletta, Giuletta!” The name enraged me. I was no longer fearful, but seized the little man and gave him a good shake, shouting, “Heigh, my friend! What are you doing in my room? Wake up and get the Devil out of here!”

  The little man blinked his eyes open and looked at me darkly. “That was really a bad dream.”

  he said. “I must thank you for waking me.” He spoke softly, almost murmured. I don’t know why but he looked different to me; the pain which he obviously felt aroused my sympathy, and instead of being angry I felt very sorry for him. It didn’t take much conversation to learn that the porter had inadvertently given me the room which had already been assigned to the little man, and that it was I who had intruded, disturbing his sleep.

  “Sir,” said the little man. “I must have seemed like an utter lunatic to you in the beer cellar. Blame my behavior on this: every now and then, I must confess, a mad spirit seizes control of me and makes me lose all concept of what is right and proper. Perhaps the same thing has happened to you at times?”

  “Oh, God, yes,” I replied dejectedly. “Just this evening, when I saw Julia again.”

  “Julia!” crackled the little man in an unpleasant tone. His face suddenly aged and his features twitched. “Let me alone. And please be good enough to cover the mirror again,” he said, looking sadly at his pillow.

  “Sir,” I said. “The name of my eternally lost love seems to awaken strange memories in you; so much so that your face has changed from its usual pleasant appearance. Still, I have hopes of spending the night here quietly with you, so I am going to cover the mirror and go to bed.”

  He raised himself to a sitting position, looked at me with his pleasant young face, and seized my hand, saying, while pressing it gently, “Sleep well, my friend. I see that we are companions in misery. Julia...Giuletta...Well, if it must be, it must be. I cannot help it; I must tell you my deepest secret, and then you will hate and despise me.”

  He slowly climbed out of bed, wrapped himself in a generous white robe, and crept slowly, almost like a ghost, to the great mirror and stood in front of it. Ah-Brightly and clearly the mirror reflected the two lighted candles, the furniture, me-but the little man was not there! He stood, head bowed toward it, in front of the mirror, but he cast no reflection! Turning to me, deep despair on his face, he pressed my hands and said, “Now you know the depths of my misery. Schlemihl, a goodhearted fellow, is to be envied, compared to me. He was irresponsible for a moment and sold his shadow. But-I-I gave my reflection to her...to her!”

  Sobbing deeply, hands pressed over his eyes, the little man turned to the bed and threw himself on it. I simply stood in astonishment, with suspicion, contempt, disgust, sympathy and pity all intermingled, for and against the little man. But while I was standing there, he began to snore so melodiously that it was contagious, and I couldn’t resist the narcotic power of his tones. I quickly covered the mirror again, put out the candles, threw myself upon the bed like the little man, and immediately fell asleep..It must have been early morning when a light awakened me, and I opened my eyes to see the little man, still in his white dressing gown, nightcap on his head, back turned to me, sitting at the table busily writing by the light of the two candles. There was a weird look about him, and I felt the chill of the supernatural. I fell into a waking-dream then, and was back at the Justizrat’s again, sitting beside Julia on the ottoman. But the whole party seemed to be only a comic candy display in the window of Fuchs, Weide and Schoch (or somewhere similar) for Christmas, and the Justizrat was a splendid gumdrop with a coat made of pleated notepaper. Trees and rosebushes rose higher and higher about us, and Julia stood up, handing me the crystal goblet, out of which blue flames licked. Someone tugged at my arm and there was the little brown man, his old man’s face on, whispering loudly to me, “Don’t drink it, don’t drink it. Look at her closely. Haven’t you seen her and been warned against her in Brueghel and Callot and Rembrandt?”

  I looked at Julia with horror, and indeed, with her pleated dress and ruffled sleeves and strange coiffure, she did look like one of the alluring young women, surrounded by demonic monsters, from the work of those masters.

  “What are you afraid of?” said Julia. “I have you and your reflection, once and for all.” I seized the goblet, but the little man leaped to my shoulder in the form of a squirrel, and waved his tail through the blue flames, chattering, “Don’t drink it, don’t drink it.” At this point the sugar figures in the display came alive and moved their hands and feet ludicrously. The Justizrat ran up to me and called out in a thin little voice, “Why all the uproar, my friend? Why all the commotion? All you have to do is get to your feet; for quite a while I’ve been watching you stride away over tables and chairs.”

  The little man had completely disappeared. Julia no longer held the goblet in her hand. “Why wouldn’t you drink?” she asked. “Wasn’t the flame streaming out of the goblet simply the kisses you once got from me?”

  I wanted to take her in my arms, but Schlemihl stepped between us and said, “This is Mina, who married my servant, Rascal.” He stepped on a couple of the candy figures, who made groaning noises. They started to multiply enormously, hundreds and thousands of them, and they swarmed all over me, buzzing like a hive of bees. The gumdrop Justizrat, who had continued to climb, had swung up as far as my neckcloth, which he kept pulling tighter and tighter. “Justizrat, you confounded gumdrop,” I screamed out loud, and startled myself out of sleep. It was bright day, already eleven o’clock.

  I was just thinking to myself that the whole adventure with the little brown man had only been an exceptionally vivid dream, when the waiter who brought in my breakfast told me that the stranger who had shared his room with me had left early, and presented his compliments. Upon the table where I had seen the weird little man sitting and writing I found a fresh manuscript, whose content I am sharing with you, since it is unquestionably the remarkable story of the little man in brown. It is as follows.

  The Story of the Lost Reflection Things finally worked out so that Erasmus Spikher was able to fulfill the wish that he had cherished all his life. He climbed into the coach with high spirits and a well-filled knapsack. He was leaving his home in the North and journeying to the beautiful land of Italy. His devoted wife was weeping copiously, and she lifted little Rasmus (after carefully wiping his mouth and nose) into the coach to kiss his father goodbye...”Farewell, Erasmus Spikher,” said his wife, sobbing. “I will keep your house well for you.

  Think of me often, remain true to me, and do not lose your hat if you fall asleep near the window, as you always do.” Spikher promised.

  In the beautiful city of Florence Spikher found some fellow Germans, young men filled with high spirits and joie de vivre, who spent their time revelling in the sensual delights which Italy so well affords. He impressed them as a good fellow and he was often invited to social occasions since he had the talent of supplying soberness to the mad abandon about him, and gave the party a highly individual touch.

  One evening in the grove of a splendid fragrant public garden, the young men (Erasmus could be included here, since he was only twenty-seven) gathered for an exceptionally merry feast.

  Each of the men, except Spikher, brought along a girl. The men were dressed in the picturesque old Germanic costume, and the women wore bright dresses, each styled differently, often fantastically, so that they seemed like wonderful mobile flowers. Every now and then one of the girls would sing an Italian love song, accompanied by the plaintive notes of mandolins, and the men would respond with a lusty German chorus or round, as glasses filled with fine Syracuse wine clinked. Yes, indeed, Italy is the land of love.

  The evening breezes sighed with passion, oranges and jasmine breathed out perfume through the grove, and it all formed a part in the banter and play which the girls (delightfully merry as only Italian women can be) began. Wilder and noisier grew the fun. Friedrich, the most excited of all, leaped to his feet, one arm around his mistress, waving high a glass of sparkling Syracuse wine with the other, and shouted, “You wonderful women of Italy! Where can true, blissful love be found except with you? You are love incarnate! But you, Erasmus,” he continued, turning to Spikher, “You don’t seem to understand this. You’ve violated your promise, propriety and the custom. You didn’t bring a girl with you, and you have been sitting here moodily, so quiet and self-concerned that if you hadn’t been drinking and singing with us I’d believe you were suffering an attack of melancholy.”

  “Friedrich,” replied Erasmus, “I have to confess that I cannot enjoy myself like that. You know that I have a wife at home, and I love her. If I took up with a girl for even one night it would be betraying my wife. For you young bachelors it’s different, but I have a family.”

  The young men laughed uproariously, for when Erasmus announced his family obligations his pleasant young face became very grave, and he really looked very strange. Friedrich’s mistress, when Spikher’s words had been translated for her (for the two men had spoken German), turned very seriously to Erasmus, and said, half-threateningly, finger raised, “Cold-blooded, heartless German watch out-you haven’t seen Giuletta yet.”

  At that very instant a rustling noise indicated that someone was approaching, and out of the dark night into the area lighted by the candles strode a remarkably beautiful girl. Her white dress, which only half-hid her bosom, shoulders and neck, fell in rich broad folds; her sleeves, puffed and full, came only to her elbows; her thick hair, parted in the front, fell in braids at the back.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 271 272 273 274 275 276 277 278 279 280 281 282 283 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 291 292 293 294