The Serapion Brethren Volume Ii Part 1

The Serapion Brethren.

by Ernst Theordor Wilhelm Hoffmann.

Vol. II

SECTION V.

The ever-fluctuating vicissitudes of human life had once more scattered our little group of friends asunder. Sylvester had gone back to his country home; Ottmar had travelled away on business, and so had Cyprian; Vincent was still in the town, but (after his accustomed fas.h.i.+on) he had disappeared in the turmoil, and was nowhere to be seen; Lothair was nursing Theodore, who had been laid on a bed of sickness by a malady long struggled against, which was destined to keep him there for a considerable time.

Indeed, several months had gone by, when Ottmar (whose sudden and unlooked-for departure had been the chief cause of the breaking up of the "Club") came back, to find, in place of the full-fledged "Serapion Brotherhood," one friend, barely convalescent, and bearing the traces of a severe illness in his pale face, abandoned by the Brethren, with the exception of one, who was tasking him severely by constant outbreaks of a grim and capricious "humour."

For Lothair was once more finding himself in one of those strange and peculiar moods of mind in which all life seemed to him to have become weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, by reason of the everlasting mockery ("chaff" might be the modern expression of this idea) of the inimical daemonic power which, like a pedantic tutor, ignores and contemns the _nature_ of men; giving man (as a tutor of the sort would do) bitter drugs and nauseous medicines, instead of sweet and delicious macaroons, to the end that his said pupil, man, may take a distaste at his own nature, enjoy it no more, and thus keep his digestion in good order.

"What an unfortunate idea it was," Lothair cried out, in the gloomiest ill-humour, when Ottmar came in and found him sitting with Theodore--"what an unfortunate idea it was of ours to insist on binding ourselves together again so closely, jumping over all the clefts which time had split between us! It is Cyprian whom we have to thank for laying the foundation-stone of Saint Serapion, on which we built an edifice which seemed destined to last a lifetime, and tumbled down into ruin in a few moons. One ought not to hang one's heart on to anything, or give one's mind over to the impressions of excitements from without; and I was a fool to do so, for I must confess to you that the way in which we came together on those Serapion evenings took such a hold on my whole being that, when the brethren so suddenly dispersed themselves over the world, my life felt to me as weary, stale, flat and unprofitable as the melancholy Prince Hamlet's did to him."

"Forasmuch as no spirit has arisen from the grave, revisiting the glimpses of the moon, to incite you to revenge," said Ottmar, with a laugh, "and as you are not called upon to send your sweetheart to a nunnery, or to thrust a poisoned rapier into the heart of a murderer-king, I think you ought not to give way to Prince Hamlet's melancholy, and should consider that it would be the grossest selfishness to renounce every league of alliance into which congenially-minded people enter because the storms of life possess the power of interfering with it. Human beings ought not to draw in their antennas at every ungentle touch, like supersensitive insects. Is the remembrance of hours pa.s.sed in gladsome kindly intercourse nothing to you? All through my journeyings I have thought of you continually. On the evenings of the meetings of the Serapion Club (which, of course, I supposed to be still in full swing) I always took my place amongst you, in spirit; a.s.similated all the delightful and entertaining things going on amongst you (entertaining you, at the same time, with whatever the spirit moved me to contribute to you). But it is absurd to continue in this vein. Is there, in Lothair's mind, really the slightest trace of that which his momentary 'out-of-tuneness' has made him say? Does he not himself admit that the cause of his being out of tune is merely the fact of our having been dispersed?"

"Theodore's illness," said Lothair, "which nearly sent him to his grave, was not a matter, either, calculated to put me into a happy state of mind."

"No," said Ottmar, "but Theodore is well again; and as to the Serapion Club, I cannot see why it should not be considered to be in full working order, now that three of the Brethren are met together."

"Ottmar is perfectly right," said Theodore; "it is a matter of indisputable necessity that we should have a meeting, in true Serapiontic fas.h.i.+on, as early as possible. The germ which we form will sprout into a tree full of fresh life and vigour, bearing flowers and fruit--I mean that that bird of pa.s.sage, Cyprian, will come back: Sylvester will soon be unhappy, there where he is, away; and when the nightingales cease singing, he will long for music of another kind; and Vincent will emerge from the billows again, no doubt, and chirp his little song."

"Have it your own way," said Lothair, rather more gently than before; "only don't expect _me_ to have anything to do with it. However, I promise that I will be present when you a.s.semble Serapiontically; and, as Theodore ought to be in the open air as much as possible, I suggest that we hold our meeting out of doors."

So they fixed upon the last day of May--which was only a few days off--for the time; and on a pretty public-garden in the neighbourhood, not too much frequented, for the place, of their next Serapiontic meeting.

A thunderstorm, pa.s.sing quickly over, and merely sprinkling the trees and bushes with a few drops of Heaven's balsam, had relieved the sultry oppressiveness of the day. The beautiful garden was lying all still, in the most exquisite brightness. The delicious perfume of leaves and flowers streamed through it, while the birds, twittering and trilling in happiness, went rustling amongst the branches, and bathed themselves in the bedewed leaf.a.ge.

"How refreshed I feel, through and through!" Theodore cried, when the friends had sate themselves down in the shade of some thickly-foliaged lime-trees; "every trace of illness, down to the most infinitesimal, has left me. I feel as if a redoubled life had dawned on me, in my active consciousness of reciprocity of action between me and the external. A man must have been as ill as I have been to be capable of this sensation, which, strengthening mind and body, must surely be (as I feel it to be) the true life-elixir which the Eternal Power, the ruling World-spirit, administers to us, directly and without intermediation. The vivifying breath of Nature is breathing out of my own breast. I seem to be floating in that glorious blue Heaven which is vaulted over us, with every burden lifted away from me!"

"This," said Ottmar, "shows that you are quite well again, beloved friend; and all glory to the Eternal Power which fitted you out with an organisation strong enough to survive an illness like that which you have gone through. It is a marvel that you recovered at all, and still a greater that you recovered so quickly."

"For my part," said Lothair, "I am not surprised that he got well so soon, because I never had a moment's doubt that he would. You may believe me, Ottmar, when I tell you that, wretched as the state in which his physical condition appeared to be, he was never really ill, mentally; and so long as the spirit keeps sound--well! it was really enough to vex one to death that Theodore, ill as he was, was always in better spirits than I was, although I was a perfectly well and sound man; and that, so soon as his bodily sufferings gave him an interval of rest, he delighted in the wildest fun and jests. At the same time, he has the rare power of remembering his feverish illusions. The doctor had forbidden him to talk; but when _I_ wished to tell him this, that and the other in quiet moments, he would motion me to be silent and not disturb his thoughts, which were busy over some important composition, or other matter of the kind."

"Yes," said Theodore, laughing, "I can a.s.sure you that Lothair's communications were of a very peculiar kidney at that time. Directly after the dispersion of the Serapion Brethren he became possessed by a foul fiend of evil humours. This you probably have gathered; but you cannot, by any possibility, divine the extraordinary ideas which he got into his head at this period of gloom and dejection. One day he came to my bedside (for I had taken to my bed by that time) stating that the old Chronicle Books were the grandest and richest mines and treasure-houses of tales, legends, novels and dramas. Cyprian said the same long ago, and it is true. Next day I noticed, although my malady was besetting me sorely, that Lothair was sitting immersed in an old folio. Moreover, he went every day to the public library and got together all the old Chronicles he could lay his hands upon. _That_ was all very well; but, besides, he got his head filled with the strange old legends which are contained in those venerable books; and when, in my hours of comparative quiet, he bestirred himself to talk to me on 'entertaining' subjects, what I heard of was war and pestilence, monstrous abortions, hurricanes, comets, fires and floods, witches, auto-da-fe's, enchantments, miracles, and, above all other subjects, his talk was of the manifold works and devices of the Devil--who, as we know, plays such an important part in all those old stories that one can hardly imagine what has become of him _now_, when he seems to keep so quietly in the background, unless he may perhaps have put on some new dress which renders him unrecognizable. Now tell me, Ottmar, don't you think such subjects of conversation well suited for a man in my then state of health?"

"Don't condemn me unheard," cried Lothair. "It is true, and I will maintain it fearlessly, that, for writers of tales, there is an immense amount of splendid material in those ancient Chronicles. But you know that _I_ have never taken much interest in them, and least of all in their _diablerie_. However, the evening before Cyprian went away I had a great argument with him as to his having far too much to do with the Devil and his family; and I told him candidly that my present opinion of his tale, 'The Singers' Contest,' is that it is a thoroughly faulty and bungling piece of work, although when he read it to us I approved of it, for many specious reasons. Upon this he attacked me in the character of a real _advocatum diaboli_, and told me such a quant.i.ty of things, out of old Chronicles and from other sources, that my head fairly reeled. And then, when Theodore fell ill, I was seized upon and overmastered by real, bitter gloom and misery. Somehow, I scarce know how or why, Cyprian's 'Singers' Contest' came back to my mind again.

Nay, the Devil himself appeared to me in person one night when I couldn't sleep; and although I was a good deal frightened by the evil fellow, still I could not help respecting him, and paying him my duty as an ever helpful aide-de-camp of tale-writers in lack of help; and, by way of spiting you all, I determined to set to work and surpa.s.s even Cyprian himself in the line of the fearsome and the terrible."

"_You_, Lothair, undertake the fearful and terrible!" said Ottmar, laughing--"you, whose bright and fanciful genius would seem expressly adapted to wave the wand of comedy!"

"Even so," said Lothair; "such was my idea. And as a first step towards carrying it out, I set to work to rummage in those old Chronicles which Cyprian had told me were the very treasure-houses of the diabolical; but I admit that it all turned out quite differently from what I had expected."

"I can fully confirm that," said Theodore. "I can a.s.sure you it is astonis.h.i.+ng, and most delicious, the way in which the Devil and the gruesomest witch-trials adapt themselves to the mental bent and style of the author of 'Nutcracker and the King of Mice.' Just let me tell you, dear Ottmar, how I chanced to lay my hands upon an experimental essay on this subject of our doughty Lothair's. He had just left me one day when I was getting to be strong enough to creep about the room a little, and I found, upon the table where he had been writing, the truly remarkable book ent.i.tled 'Haft.i.tii Michrochronicon Berlinense,'

open at the page where, _inter alia_, occurs what follows:--

"'Ye Divell, in this year of Grace, appeared bodily in ye streets of Berlin, and attended funerals, conducting himself thereat sorrowfullie,' &c., &c., &c.

"You will see, my dear Ottmar, that this entertaining piece of intelligence was of a nature to delight me immensely; but some pages in Lothair's handwriting delighted me still more. In those he had welded up the accounts of this curious conduct of the Devil with a horrible case of misbirth, and a gruesome trial for witchcraft, into an _ensemble_ of the most delightful and entertaining description. I have got those pages here; I brought them in my pocket to amuse you with them."

He took them out of his pocket and handed them to Ottmar.

"What!" cried Lothair, "the affair which I styled 'Some Account of the Life of a Well-known Character,' which I thought was torn up and destroyed long ago--the abortive product of a fit of capricious fancy; can it be that you have captured _that_ from me and kept it, to bring me into discredit with persons of taste and culture? Here with the wretched piece of scribbling, that I may tear it up and scatter it to the winds of heaven."

"No, no," cried Theodore; "you must read it to Ottmar, as a penance for what you inflicted on me in my illness with your horrible weird Chronicle matter."

"Well," said Lothair, "I suppose I can't refuse, though I shall cut a strange figure before this very grave and carefully-behaved gentleman.

However, here goes." So Lothair took the papers, and read as follows:--

THE LIFE OF A WELL-KNOWN CHARACTER.

In the year one thousand five hundred and fifty-one there was to be seen in the streets of Berlin, particularly in the evening twilight, a gentleman of fine and distinguished appearance. He wore a rich and beautiful doublet, trimmed with sable, white galligaskins, and slashed shoes; on his head was a satin barret cap with a red feather. His manners were charming, and highly polished. He bowed politely to everybody, particularly to ladies, both married and single; and to _them_ he was wont to address civil and complimentary speeches. He would say: "Donna! if you have any wish or desire in the depths of your heart, pray command your most humble servant, who will devote his humble powers to the utmost to be entirely at your disposal and service." This was what he said to married ladies of position. To the unmarried he said: "Heaven grant you a nice husband, worthy of your loveliness and virtues." To the men he behaved just as charmingly, and it was no wonder that everybody was fond of this stranger, and came to his a.s.sistance when he would stand hesitating, in doubt and difficulty, at some crossing, apparently not knowing how to get over it; for though a well-grown and handsomely-proportioned person in most respects, he had one lame foot, and was obliged to go about with a crutch. But as soon as anybody gave him a hand to help him at a crossing, he would instantly jump up with him some six ells or so into the air, and not come to the ground again within a distance of some twelve paces on the other side of the crossing. This rather astonished people, it need not be said, and one or two sprained their legs slightly in the process.

But the stranger excused himself by saying that, before his leg was lame, he had been princ.i.p.al dancer at the Court of the King of Hungary; so that, when he felt himself called upon to take a jump, the old habit came back upon him, and, w.i.l.l.y-nilly, he could not help springing up into the air as he used to do in the exercise of his profession. The people were satisfied with this explanation, and even took much delight in seeing some privy councillor, clergyman, or other person of position and respectability, taking a great jump of this sort hand-in-hand with the stranger.

But, merry and cheerful as he seemed to be, his behaviour changed at times in a most extraordinary manner; for he would often go about the streets at night and knock at people's doors; and when they opened to him, he would be standing there in white grave clothes, raising a terrible crying and howling, at which they were fearfully frightened; but he would apologize the following day, saying that he was compelled to do this to remind the citizens and himself of the perishableness of the body, and the imperishableness of the soul, to which their minds ought always to be carefully directed. He would weep a little as he said this, which touched the folks very much. He went to all the funerals, following the coffin with reverent step, and conducting himself like one overwhelmed with sorrow, so that he could not join in the hymns for sobbing and lamenting. But, overcome with grief as he was on those occasions, he was just as delighted and happy at marriages, which in those days were celebrated in a very splendid style at the town-hall. There he would sing all sorts of songs in a loud and delightful voice, and dance for hours on end with the bride and the young ladies (on his sound leg, adroitly drawing the lame one out of the way), behaving and evincing himself on those occasions as a man of the most delightful manners and bearing. But the best of it was that he always gave the marrying couples delightful presents, so that of course he was always a most welcome guest. He gave them gold chains, bracelets, and other valuable things; so that the goodness, the liberality, and the superior morality of this stranger became bruited abroad throughout the city of Berlin, and even reached the ears of the Elector himself. The Elector thought that a person of this sort would be a great ornament at his own Court, and caused him to be sounded as to his willingness to accept an appointment there. The stranger, however, wrote back an answer (in vermilion letters, on a piece of parchment a yard and a half in length, and the same in breadth) to the effect that he was most submissively grateful for the honour offered to him, but implored his Serene Highness to permit him to remain in the enjoyment of the citizenesque life which was so wholly conformed to all his sentiments, in peace; adding that he had selected Berlin, in preference to many other cities, as his residence, because he had nowhere else met with such charming people, persons of such truthfulness and uprightness, of so much "feeling," of such a sense for fine and delightful "manners" so exquisitely after his own heart in every respect. The Elector, and his whole Court along with him, much admired and wondered at the beautiful style in which this reply of the stranger was conceived, and the matter was allowed to rest there.

It happened that just then the lady of Councillor Walter Lutkens was, for the first time, "as ladies wish to be who love their lords"; and the old _accoucheuse_, Mistress Barbara Roloffin, predicted that this fine, grand lady, overflowing with health and strength, would undoubtedly bring into the world a grand and vigorous son, so that Herr Walter Lutkens was all hope and gladness. Our "stranger," who had been a guest at Lutkens's wedding, was in the habit of calling at his house now and then; and it chanced that he made one of those calls of his on an evening when Barbara Roloffin was there.

As soon as old Barbara set eyes on the stranger she gave a marvellous loud e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of delight, and it appeared as though all the deep wrinkles of her face smoothed themselves out in an instant. Her pale lips and cheeks grew red, and the youth and beauty to which she had long said "good-bye" came back to her again. She cried out, "Ah, ah, Herr Junker! Is this you that I see here really and truly? Is this you, yourself? Oh, I welcome you! I am so delighted to see you!" and she was nearly falling down at his feet.

But he answered this demonstration in words of anger, whilst his eyes flashed fire. n.o.body could understand what it was that he said to her.

But the old woman shrunk into a corner, as pale and wrinkled as she had been at first, and whimpering faintly and unintelligibly.

"My dear Mr. Lutkens," the stranger said to the master of the house, "I hope you will take great care lest something annoying may happen in your house here. I really hope, with all my heart, that everything will go well on this auspicious occasion. But this old creature, Barbara Roloffin, is by no means so well up to her business as perhaps you suppose. She is an old acquaintance of mine, and I am sorry to say that she has on many occasions not paid proper attention to her patients."

Both Lutkens and his wife had been very anxious, and had felt most eery and uncanny about this whole business, and full of suspicion as to old Barbara Roloffin, particularly when they remembered the extraordinary transfiguration which took place in her when she saw the stranger. They had very great suspicions that she was in the practice of black and unholy arts, so that they forbade her to cross the threshold of their house any more, and they made arrangements with another _accoucheuse_.

On this, old Barbara was very angry, and said that Lutkens and his wife would pay very dearly for what they had done to her.

Lutkens's hope and gladness were turned into bitter heart-sorrow and deep grief, when his wife brought into the world a horrible changeling in place of the beautiful boy predicted by Barbara Roloffin. It was a creature all chestnut brown, with two horns on its head, great fat eyes, no nose whatever, a big wide mouth with a white tongue sticking out of it upside down, and no neck. Its head was down between its shoulders; its body was wrinkled and swollen; its arms came out just above its hips, and it had long, thin shanks.

Mr. Lutkens wept and lamented terribly. "Oh, just heavens!" he cried; "what in the name of goodness is going to be the outcome of this? Can this little one ever be expected to tread in his father's steps? Was there ever such a thing known as a Member of Council with a couple of horns on his head, and chestnut brown all over?"

The stranger consoled Lutkens as much as ever he could. He pointed out to him that a good education does a great deal; that though, as concerned form and appearance, the new-born thing was really to be characterized as a most arrant schismatic, still he ventured to say that it looked about it very understandingly with its fat eyes, and that there was room for a deal of wisdom between the two horns on its forehead. Also that though it might, perhaps, never be fit to be a Member of Council, it was perfectly capable of becoming a distinguished _savant_, inasmuch as excessive ugliness is often a characteristic of _savants_, and even causes them to be highly respected and much looked up to.

However, Lutkens could not but ascribe his misfortune in the depths of his heart to old Barbara Roloffin, particularly when he learned that she had been sitting at the door of the room during his wife's _accouchement_; and Frau Lutkens had declared, with many tears, that the old woman's face had been before her eyes all the time of it, and that she had not been able to get rid of the sight of her.

Now Mr. Lutkens's suspicions were not, it is true, enough to base any legal proceedings upon in the matter; but Heaven so ordered things that in a very short time all the infamous deeds which old Barbara had committed were brought into the clear light of day.

For it happened that shortly after those events there came on one day, about twelve at noon, a terrible storm, and a most violent wind, and the people in the streets saw Barbara Roloffin (who was on her way to attend a lady in need of her professional services) borne, rus.h.i.+ng away on the wings of a blast, high up through the air, over the housetops and the church steeples, and set down, none the worse for the trip, in a meadow close to Berlin.

After this, of course, there could be no more doubt about the "black art" of Barbara Roloffin. Lutkens lodged his plaint before the proper tribunal, and the woman was taken into custody. She denied everything obstinately, till she was put to the rack. Upon that, unable to endure the agony, she confessed that she had been in league with the Devil, and had practised magical arts for a very long time. She admitted that she had bewitched poor Frau Lutkens, and foisted off the vile abortion upon her; and that, over and above that, she had in company with two other witches belonging to Blumber killed and boiled several children of Christian parents, with the object of causing a famine in the land.