Volume 2 — THE LIFE OF A WELL-KNOWN CHARACTER.

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 assistance 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 principal 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, willy-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 Lütkens 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 Lütkens was all hope and gladness. Our "stranger," who had been a guest at Lütkens'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 ejaculation 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. Nobody 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. Lütkens," 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 Lütkens 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 Lütkens and his wife would pay very dearly for what they had done to her.

Lütkens'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. Lütkens 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 Lütkens 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, Lütkens 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 Lütkens 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. Lütkens'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, rushing 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. Lütkens 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 Lütkens, 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.

Accordingly she was sentenced to be burnt alive in the market-place. So when the appointed day arrived old Barbara was conducted there in presence of a great concourse of people, and made to ascend the scaffold which was there erected. When ordered to take off a fur cloak which she was wearing, she would by no means obey, insisting that they should tie her to the stake just as she was. This was done. The pile of wood was already alight, and burning at all four corners, when suddenly the stranger appeared, seemingly grown to gigantic dimensions, and glaring over the heads of the populace at Barbara Roloffin with eyes of flame.

The clouds of black smoke were rolling on high, the crackling flames were catching the woman's dress, she cried out, in a terrible screaming voice, "Satan! Satan! is this how thou holdest the pact thou hast made with me? Help, Satan! Help! my time is not out yet!" and the stranger, it was found, had suddenly vanished. But from the spot where he had been standing an enormous bat went fluttering up, darted into the thick of the flames, and thence rose screaming into the air with the old woman's fur cloak; and the burning pyre went crashing down into extinction.

Horror seized upon all the spectators; every one now saw clearly that the distinguished stranger had been none other than the very Devil in person. He must have had some special grudge against the folks of Berlin, to whom he had so long behaved so smoothly and in such friendly fashion, and with hellish deceit betrayed Councillor Lütkens and many other sapient men and women.

Such is the power of the Evil One; from whom and from all his snares may Heaven in its mercy defend us all.

When Lothair had finished, he looked into Ottmar's face, in utter self-irony, with the peculiar expression of bitter sweetness which he had at his command on such occasions.

"Well," said Theodore, "what think you of Lothair's pretty little specimen of diablerie? One of the best points about it, I think, is that there is not too much of it."

Whilst Lothair had been reading, Ottmar had laughed a great deal, but towards the close he had become grave and silent. "I must admit," he said, "that in this little tale or 'prank'--for I don't know what else to call it--of Lothair's there predominates an attempt, often more or less successful, at a certain sort of amusing naïveté, very appropriate to the character of the German Devil. Also, that when he talks about the Devil's jumping over the streets hand in hand with respectable townfolk and of the 'chestnut brown schismatic,' who might turn out a quaint and ugly savant, though never a nice, natty, spick-and-span Member of Council, we see the curvets and the caprioles of the same little Pegasus which was bestridden by the author of 'Nutcracker.' Still, I think that he ought to have got on the back of a horse of a different colour; and, indeed, I cannot say what the reason exactly is why the pleasantly comic impression which the earlier part of the story produces vanishes away into nothingness; whilst, out of this nothingness, there ultimately develops a certain something which becomes most uncanny and unpleasant; and the concluding words, which are intended to do away with this feeling, do not succeed in doing away with it."

"Oh, thou most sapient of all critics," Lothair cried, "who dost such high honour to this most insignificant thing of all the insignificant things which I have ever written down as to dissect it carefully with magnifying glasses on nose, let me tell you that it served me as an anatomical study long ago. Did I not style it a mere product of a mood of caprice? Have I not anathematized it myself? However, I am glad that I read it to you, because it gives me an opportunity of speaking my mind concerning tales of this kind. And I am sure that my Serapion Brethren will agree with me. In the first place, Ottmar, I should like to trace out for you the germ of that unpleasant--or, better, 'uncanny'--feeling which you were conscious of when you were at first beginning to see what you have called the 'amusing naïveté' of it. Whatever grounds the good old Hafftitz may have had for telling us that the Devil passed a certain time leading the life of a townsman of Berlin, this remains for us a wholly 'fanciful' or 'fantastic' incident. And the quality of the 'supernatural'--the 'spookishness' (to use an expression now not unfamiliar)--which is a leading characteristic of that tremendous 'principle of negation'--that 'spirit which eternally denies and destroys'--is, by reason of the (in a manner) comic contrastedness in which it is presented, calculated to cause in us the strange sensation, compounded of terror and irony, which fetters our attention in a manner the reverse of unpleasant. But the case is quite different as to the terrible witch stories. In them actual life is brought on to the stage with all its reality of horror. When I read about Barbara Roloffin's execution, I felt as though I saw the funeral pyre smoking in the market-place. All the horror of the terrible witchcraft-trials rose to my memory. A pair of sparkling red eyes, and an attenuated weazened body, were enough to cause a poor old creature to be assumed to be a witch, guilty of every description of wicked and unholy arts and practices; to have legal process instituted against her, and to be led to the scaffold. The application of the rack, or other form of torture, confirmed the accusations against her, and decided the case."

"Still," said Theodore, "it is very remarkable that so many of those supposititious witches of their own accord confessed their pact, and other relations, with the Evil One, without any coercion whatever. Two or three years ago it happened that a number of legal documents fell into my hands relating to trials for witchcraft; and I could scarce believe my eyes when I read in them confessions of things which made my flesh creep. They told of ointments, the use of which turned human beings into various animals; they spoke of riding on broomsticks, and, in fact, of all the devilish practices which we read of in old legends. Bat, first and foremost, and invariably, those supposititious witches always openly and shamelessly avowed, and boasted--usually of their own accord--as to their unchaste relations with the unclean and diabolical 'gallant' (as their term for him was). Now, how could such things be possible?"

"Because," Lothair said, "belief in a diabolical compact actually brought such a compact about."

"How do you mean? What do you say?" the two others cried together.

"Understand me properly, that is all I ask," said Lothair, "It is matter of certainty that, in the times when nobody doubted of the direct and immediate influence of the Devil, or that he constantly appeared visibly, those miserable creatures, who were hunted down and put so mercilessly to fire and sword, actually and firmly believed in all that they were accused of; and that many, in the wickedness of their hearts, tried their utmost, by means of every description of supposed arts of witchcraft, to enter into compact with the Devil, for the sake of gain, or for the doing of evil deeds; and then, in conditions of brain-excitement, produced by beverages affecting their senses, and by terrible oaths and ceremonies of conjuration, saw the Evil One, and entered into those compacts which were to confer upon them supernatural powers. The wildest of the fabrications of the brain which those confessions contain--based upon inward conviction--do not seem too wild when one considers what strange fancies--nay, what terrible infatuations--even hysteria itself is capable of producing in women. Thus the wickedness of the hearts of those putative witches was often paid for by a fearful death. We cannot reasonably reject the testimony of those old witch-trials, for they are supported by the evidence of witnesses, or other clearly recorded facts; and there are many instances of people who have committed crimes deserving of death. Remember Tieck's magnificent tale, 'The Love-Spell.' There is a deed mentioned in the papers I have been speaking of very analogous to the crime of the horrible woman in Tieck's tale. So that a death on the funeral pyre was often really the proper punishment for those fearful misdoings."

"There occurs to my remembrance," Theodore said, "an occasion when an accursed crime of that description chanced to be brought vividly before my own eyes, filling me with the profoundest pain and sorrow. When I was living in W---- I went to see a certain charming country seat, L----, which you know. It has been justly said of it that it seems to float like some stately swan mirrored on the beautiful lake which lies at its feet. I had heard, before, that there were dark rumours to the effect that the unfortunate possessor of it, who had died but a short time before, had carried on magical practices, with the help of an old woman; and that the aged keeper of the chateau could tell a good deal about this business, could one gain his confidence. As soon as I saw this man he struck me as a very remarkable person. Imagine to yourselves a hoary-headed old man with imprints of the profoundest terror in his face, dressed poorly, like a peasant, but indicating, by his manner, unusual cultivation. Remark that this man, whom you would have taken for an ordinary labourer at the first glance, would talk to you--if you did not happen to understand the patois of the district--in the purest French, or in equally good Italian, just as you chose. I managed to interest and to animate him by touching, as we wandered through the great halls, on the troubles which his late master had had to go through, and by showing that I was, to some extent, acquainted with the subject, and with what had happened in those bygone days. He explained the deeper meaning of many of the paintings and adornments (which, to the uninitiated, seemed mere unmeaning prettinesses), and grew more and more frank and confidential. At last he opened a small closet, floored with slabs of white marble, in which the only piece of furniture was a cauldron of brass. The walls seemed to have been stripped of their former adornments. I knew, I felt, that I was in the place where the former master of the house, blinded and befooled by his lust for sensuous enjoyment, had descended to diabolical practices. When I dropped a word or two hinting at this subject, the old man raised his eyes to heaven with an expression of the bitterest melancholy, and said, with a deep sigh, 'Ah! Holy Virgin! hast thou forgiven him?' He then silently pointed to a large marble slab embedded in the middle of the flooring. I looked at this slab with much closeness of observation, and became aware that there were reddish veins meandering about through the stone. And, as I fixed my attention upon them more and more closely, heaven aid me! the features of a human face grew more and more distinctly traceable and visible, just as when, on looking at a distorted picture through a lens specially constructed, all its lines and effects then, and not till then, grow clear and sharp.

"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."

[Footnote 1: Known in English as "The Bottle Imp."]

"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: