Chapter VI

In the shady palm-forest, I walked wildly up and down. What was the use, to me, of my wondrous gifts, if this doctor, with his witchcraft, always contrived to humble me, and to obliterate from the minds of the ladies all that I might effect by my gold and rich presents. I could no longer spare him. The duke and duchess were worthy, God-fearing people; and Angelica went every day to mass, and every week to confession. They should know who they were entertaining as a friend—who was luring their lovely daughter on to her destruction. But what could I adduce against him? That he had journeyed to China upon a poodle-dog, and there stolen money and precious stones from the emperor’s treasury? Good Heavens! If I had advanced such a statement Angelica would have looked suspiciously at me, and the duchess would have felt my pulse, and anxiously asked—“Are your nerves again excited? Is this a fresh attack, my lord?” No, no; nothing was to be done in this way. Only some mighty blow at his credit could free me from my rival. How was it, that from the depths of my soul I seemed to hear a distinct voice, saying—“You know well both him and his poodle; bethink yourself where you have seen them before; he is a person of distinction, well known throughout Europe.” But I thought until my head ached, and could remember nothing. Suddenly, a plan occurred to me, which would put an end to all my embarrassment. Was not the doctor occupied at this moment in creating arbors for the ladies—and was not his poodle sitting upon the coach-box, whistling Caspar’s song from Der Freischütz? Could I not instantly repair to the doctor’s studio, and procure proofs of his dealings with the evil one?

No sooner thought than done. I set my cap more firmly upon my head, and in the next moment I was sitting in the doctor’s studio, surrounded by the most ordinary articles of furniture and dress. The papers upon the table were of no consequence, but the handwriting appeared to me remarkable. The ancient form of the letters, and the various flourishes with which they were adorned, belonged to the Middle Ages. I stepped up to another table, upon which lay several books and a map.

“He loves reading,” thought I: “from the reading in which a man delights, one can easily discover the bent of his mind; and perhaps he has made marginal notes which will betray him, and afford sure proofs of his guilt.” The first book that I opened was the earliest edition of Faust—it was the merest fragment; and nowhere through the book could I find a scrap of writing except at the end, where, in red ink, in the doctor’s easily-recognized handwriting, was the single word, “good.” Did this word refer only to the masterly genius of Goethe, or did it characterize the escape of Faust from his well-merited punishment; an escape which probably filled the doctor with hope that he also might continue unharmed in his league with the Evil One. I opened another book: it was another edition of the same work, with the same blood-red “good” at the end. It was the same with every book that I could find—nothing but Faust, with the same comment at the end. In the latest edition, however, where Faust and Mephistophiles leave Margaret in prison, in the last scene, there was a distinctly-written “very good” at the end.

This “very good” made the strangest impression upon me. At last I lighted upon a handsomely bound book, which proved to be an edition of the admirable drawings with which Ramberg has illustrated Goethe’s great work. As I held this book in my hand I had the distinct impression that the riddle was about to be solved—and so it proved. Was I dreaming?—No. In the first picture upon which I cast my eyes, I recognised in Faust and his Demon Doctor Joannes—my rival, the wooer of the heavenly Angelica—and his hateful poodle, who was now figuring as coachman to the Duke of Silvio Cremonio. My glimmering recollection became a living picture; and I understood well, why the doctor had defied the demon dog—“because the old fellow in Weimar had not completed him.” And because he was as yet only a fragment—because M. von Goethe had delayed his conclusion he was permitted to live in the world, and make me and my Angelica miserable. I would write to Weimar, to M. von Goethe, instantly, and represent to him the dreadful consequences of his delay. No—it were much better, by virtue of my cap, to present myself before him, and plead my own cause in proprid persona.

But now the most tormenting fears took possession of me. I seemed to hear in the distance Angelica’s cry for help, and the shrill tones of her mother entreating my aid. O, Goethe, Faust, and Mephistophiles! I feared the worst. In a flash I was at San Solario. The coach was no longer there; and the old gardener informed me that, at the approach of evening, the ladies had returned to town, accompanied by Doctor Joannes. I still seemed to hear Angelica’s cry for help, and the entreaties of her mother. A moment more, and I stood in the door-way of the palace of Silvio Cremonio; and, looking into the court, saw the direst confusion reigning everywhere. Footmen were running hither and thither with burning torches, and I heard Angelica’s name pronounced in tones of pity, and the doctor’s accompanied with curses. I pressed through the bewildered crowd, rushed up the marble steps, and into the drawing-room. There stood the stout old duke, who came toward me with outstretched arms, but unable to articulate a word. The duchess came also; and with the rage of a lioness robbed of her young in her face and manner seized my hand, and said—

“O, welcome, marquis; more welcome now than ever. Angelica has been torn from us by that demon doctor. You warned us, but I was foolishly deaf to your warnings! O, help us; for you, too, possess the most wonderful natural gifts—else, where could you have procured the beautiful jewels and rich lace!”

“Torn from you by the doctor?” cried I, almost frantic. “Is it possible that this miserable villain, who only exists in print and copperplates, has dared to carry off a Brazilian princess?”

“Dared it before my very eyes!” replied the duchess. “He was this afternoon, as you saw, extremely polite, and more charmingly pale than ever. He assisted me into the coach; but when Angelica was about to enter he flung to the door, seized her, and seating himself with her upon the box, drove through the streets in the wildest manner. Just the other side of the city gates the horses reared, snorted fire, and something like a fiery chariot bore away the doctor, Angelica, and the coachman to the east, where they vanished in that thunder-cloud that you see there.”

“There I recognize Faust!” I cried. “This driving off in flames is an old trick of his; but he shall not long rejoice over his beautiful prey. In a few moments, I will restore Angelica to your arms; you will again be a happy mother, and the princess—”

“Shall be your reward,” said the lady, interrupting me. “I have seen your passion, and am convinced that your love for her is the cause of the weakness of your nerves. Bring the dear child back to us, and you shall receive the blessing of a happy mother.”

“And of a happy father,” added the old duke.

“Away then to the strife with the doctor and his dog!” cried I, entranced. “What is the laurel of fame, in comparison with the price for which I strive?”

The duchess commanded the chaplain to attend in the chapel, and I put on my cap. With a wish only I was hovering in the air in the fiery car, and lightnings were quivering around, while the thunder rolled beneath me. Beside me lay fainting and motionless the dear innocent child, the graceful Angelica. She knew nothing of what was passing around her, and lay there like a careless, sleeping child.

Faust and Mephistophiles were talking together.

“On the peak of Teneriffe we will rest,” said the former.

“And the marriage shall take place at Gretna Green,” said the latter.

“The bride is mine,” cried I, boldly; and in an instant I laid her at the feet of her parents, who were expecting us at the chapel door. As if awakening from a dream, the beautiful being lifted her head, and stroking back her curls, cast an inquiring glance around. But this was no time for explanation. The storm had broken fearfully over the palace, and the duchess foreboded danger.

“You will be happy in marriage, dear children,” said she. “You, Angelica, because you will want for nothing; and you, my lord, because you will gratify every wish of hers. How much pin-money shall you allow her—a hundred thousand pistoles a year?”

“A million!” cried I, “if she is only mine.” My head burned, my heart beat as though it would leap from my breast. The storm grew more fearful, the high Gothic window of the chapel was illuminated by the lightning, and the doctor’s face was plainly seen, grinning frightfully in, and by his side that accursed poodle.

“Hey, hey, Gabriel Mostert!” the doctor seemed scornfully to say. “You are a sad rogue, and the devil will have you, too.”

“I’ll have you, too,” howled the dog, in echo.

I could not fling off the horror that seized me. The priest had now reached the place where my audible assent was necessary; I grew dizzy, and my hand clutched at the altar—a thunder-clap of indescribable violence at this moment burst from the sky—the light of the tapers threatened to be extinguished. All grew dim before my eyes. Then, like shadows, the forms of Van Delpt and Fleury rose up as marriage-witnesses near the altar; the priest, the ducal parents, the princely bride, and the whole retinue dwindled away into infinite littleness, and then into nothing. The marble pillars of the chapel sunk into the earth—the lofty dome bowed down, and became a common ceiling, and out of the dimness gradually appeared, before my uncertain sight, the red interior of the—opium-booth, in Bujukdìre, and a row of slumbering Turks against the walls. My two friends, Van Delpt and Fleury, were standing before me, shaking me roughly by the arms and shoulders, in order to bring me entirely to myself.

“Every thing has its time,” said the cook, with melancholy phlegm, “and you must now abdicate. Your sleep was rather restless at the last, and so we awaked you. I was very happy, I assure you, as William Benkels, but all earthly happiness is a dream, and the dream vanishes like a vapor.”

“What do you mean?” cried I, without understanding him. “Where is my charming Angelica? Where’s my purse? Where’s my wishing-cap? I’m not here, I’m in Brazil—in Rio Janeiro.”

“Nothing but a dream,” cried M. Fleury. “You swallowed opium as well as we, mon cher, and so you’ve had heavenly dreams. But that is all over; be quiet now, my good fellow, and we’ll have some strong coffee; that will prevent disagreeable consequences.”

Pale, and trembling in all my limbs, with the assistance of my friends I reached Van Delpt’s room, where we spent the night in drinking strong coffee, and relating the glories of which we had dreamed.

While I pen these lines to while away the time, I am in quarantine at Trieste—an excellent provision against the plague, but very disagreeable is it to be detained as a suspicious person. But my time will soon be over. I shall hasten on the wings of love to little Kate, the burgomaster’s daughter.

As to my business in Constantinople, it all ended happily. The Mufti, Reis-Effendi, and all the other dignitaries of the Sublime Porte, settled their accounts before the Ramazan; and Messrs. Steinlein & Son were as well satisfied with the balance, as I was with the commission that fell to my share; by means of which I shall set up a shop, with a good stock of Crêpe de Chine and other fashionable articles, as well as veritable Eau de Cologne. My arms are stretched out toward my home, and my heart laughs to greet it; and in the new ledger of my life stand entered in golden letters—“Little Katy for ever.”