Эрнст Гофман
Specimens of German Romance; Vol. II. Master Flea
"Oh, my dear Mr. Tyss!" exclaimed the old woman, "only come up stairs directly, and go into your chamber."
And she opened the room-door with a cunning titter. On entering, O wonder! O joy! the little Dörtje Elverdink tripped up to him, in her dress of tissue, as he had before seen her at Mr. Swammer's.
"At length I see you again!" lisped the little one, and contrived to nestle up so closely to Peregrine, that he could not help embracing her most tenderly in spite of all his good resolutions. His senses seemed ecstacied by love and joy.
It has often happened to a man that in the height of his transports he has hit his nose somewhat roughly, and, being suddenly awakened out of his heaven by the earthly pain, has tumbled down again into the vulgar world. Just so it chanced with our Mr. Tyss. In stooping down to kiss Dörtje's sweet mouth, he gave his nose, of goodly dimensions, a hard blow against the diadem of shining brilliants, which the little one wore in her raven locks. The pain of the blow upon the sharp points of the stone brought him sufficiently to himself to perceive the diadem. The diadem reminded him of the Princess Gamaheh, and with this recollection recurred all that Master Flea had told him of the little syren. He bethought himself that a Princess, the daughter of a mighty king, could not possibly care about his love, and therefore all her pretended affection must be a mere trick, by which the dissembler hoped to regain possession of Master Flea. With this consideration a cold ice-stream seemed to rush through his veins, which, if it did not quite extinguish, at least damped, the love-flames.
Peregrine gently freed himself from the arms of the little one, who had lovingly embraced him, and said with downcast eyes, "Oh, heavens! you are the daughter of the mighty King Sekakis, the beautiful Gamaheh. Your pardon, princess, if a feeling, which I could not master, hurried me into folly, into madness. But yourself, lady,–"
"What are you saying, my fair friend?" interrupted Dörtje Elverdink; "I the daughter of a mighty king? I a princess? I am your Alina, who will love you to distraction, if you,–but how is this?–Alina, the queen of Golconda? she is already with you; I have spoken with her–a good kind woman, but she has grown old, and is no longer so handsome as in the time of her marriage with the French general. Woe is me! I am not the right one; I never ruled in Golconda. Woe is me!"
The little one had closed her eyes, and began to totter. Peregrine conveyed her to a sofa.
"Gamaheh!" she went on, speaking in a state of somnambulism, "Gamaheh, do you say? Gamaheh, the daughter of King Sekakis? Yes, I recollect, in Famagusta!–I was indeed a beautiful tulip–Yet no, even then I felt desire and love in my breast.–Still, still on that point!"
She was silent, and seemed to be falling into a perfect slumber. Peregrine undertook the perilous enterprise of placing her in a more convenient position, but, as he gently embraced her, a concealed pin prickled him sharply in the finger. According to his custom he snapt his fingers, and Master Flea, taking it for the concerted signal, immediately placed the microscopic glass in his eye.
Now, as usual, Peregrine saw behind the tunicle of the eyes the strange interweaving of nerves and veins, which pierced deep into the brain. But with these were twined bright silver threads, a hundred times thinner than the thinnest spider's web, and it was these very threads that confused him, for they seemed to be endless, branching out into a something, indistinguishable even by the microscopic eye; perhaps they were thoughts of a sublimer kind, the others of a sort more easily comprehended. Then he observed flowers, strangely blended, which took the shape of men, then again men, who dissolved as it were into the earth, and peeped forth again as stones and metals. Amongst these all manner of beasts were in motion, who underwent innumerable changes, and spoke strange languages. No one appearance answered to the other, and in the plaintive sounds of sorrow that filled the air, there was a dissonance, corresponding with that of the images. But it was this very dissonance that ennobled still more the deep fundamental harmony, which broke out triumphantly, and united all that seemed irreconcileable.
"Do not puzzle yourself," whispered Master Flea, "do not puzzle yourself, my good Peregrine; those which you see, are the images of a dream. Even if any thing more should lurk behind them, now is not the time for farther inquiry. Only call the little deceiver by her real name, and then sift her as much as you please."
As the lady had many names, it must have been difficult, one would have thought, for Peregrine to hit upon the right, but, without the least reflection, he exclaimed, "Dörtje Elverdink! dear, charming girl; was it no deceit? Is it possible that you can love me?"
Immediately the little one awoke from her dreamy state, opened her eye, and said with burning glance, "What a doubt, my Peregrine! Could a maiden do as I have done, unless her breast were filled with the most glowing passion? Peregrine, I love you more than any one, and, if you will be mine, I am yours with my whole soul, and remain with you because I cannot leave you, and not merely to escape from the tyranny of my uncle."
The silver threads had disappeared, and the thoughts, properly arranged, ran thus:–"How is this? At first I feigned a passion for him only to regain Master Flea for myself and Leuwenhock; and now I actually am fond of him. I have caught myself in my own snares. I think no more of Master Flea, and would like to be his, who seems lovelier to me than any man I have ever seen."
It may be easily supposed what effect these thoughts produced in Peregrine's breast. He fell on his knees before the fair one, covered her hand with a thousand burning kisses, called her his joy, his heaven, his whole happiness.
"Well!" lisped the maiden, drawing him gently to her side, "well, my love, you certainly will not deny a request, on the fulfilment of which depends the repose, nay, the very existence of your beloved."
"Demand," replied Peregrine, tenderly embracing her, "demand any thing, my life,–any thing you will; your slightest wish is my command. Nothing in the world is so dear to me that I would not with pleasure sacrifice it to you and your affection."
"Woe is me!" lisped Master Flea; "who could have imagined that the little traitress would have conquered? I am lost!"
"Hear then," replied Gamaheh, after having returned with equal fire the glowing kisses, which Peregrine imprinted on her lips, "hear then; I know how the–"
The door burst open, and in rushed George Pepusch.
"Zeherit!" cried the little one in despair, and fell back on the sofa, senseless.
The Thistle, Zeherit, flew to the princess, took her in his arms, and ran off with the speed of lightning.
For this time Master Flea was saved.
Fifth Adventure
Thoughts of poetical young enthusiasts and female blue-stockings.–Peregrine's reflections upon his life, and Master Flea's learning and understanding.–Singular virtue and firmness of Mr. Tyss.–Unexpected conclusion of an event that threatened tragically.
With the speed of lightning,–as the reader has already learnt at the conclusion of the fourth adventure,–George Pepusch snatched the fair one from the arms of the enamoured Peregrine, and left him behind petrified with astonishment and terror. When at length the latter came to his recollection, and would have followed his robber-friend, all was still and desolate in the house. Upon his repeated calling, the old Alina came pattering up the stairs from one of the farthest rooms, and declared that she had not observed any, the slightest, part of the whole business.
Peregrine was nigh going mad at the loss of Dörtje, but Master Flea began to console him in a tone that must have inspired the most desperate with confidence: "You are not yet quite certain, my dear Mr. Peregrine, whether the fair Dörtje Elverdink has really left your house. As well as I can judge of such things, she is not far off; I seem to feel her nearness. But, if you will follow my friendly counsel, you will leave her to her fate. Trust me, she is as capricious as the wind; it may be, as you have said, that she now is really fond of you, but how long will it be before she plunges you into such misery, that you will be in danger from it of losing your reason, like the Thistle, Zeherit? I say again, give up your lonely way of life. You will be the better for it. How many women have you known, that you should take Dörtje for the handsomest of her sex? What maiden have you approached with love, that you should believe that Dörtje alone can love you? Go to, Peregrine; experience will show you better. You are a well-made, handsome man, and I should not be so keen-sighted, as Master Flea really is, if I could not see beforehand that love would smile upon you in a very different way from what you may expect."
Peregrine had already broken the ice by going abroad in public places, and it was therefore the less difficult for him to visit societies, from which he had formerly withdrawn himself. In this Master Flea rendered him excellent service with his microscopic glass, and he is said during this time to have kept a day-book, and to have made notes of the most remarkable and pleasant contradictions between words and thoughts, as they daily occurred to him. Perhaps the editor of this strange tale, called Master Flea, may find some future opportunity of bringing to light many worthy impartments from this same day-book; here it would only stop the current of the history, and, therefore, would not be welcome to the reader. So much, however, may be said, that many of the phrases with the corresponding thoughts seemed to be stereotyped as it were; as for example,–"Favour me with your advice;"–the thought being, "He is fool enough to think I ask his advice in a matter that I have long since resolved upon, and that tickles him." "I have the most perfect confidence in you;"–the thought being, "I knew long ago that you were a scoundrel," &c. c. It should also be mentioned that many folks mightily puzzled Peregrine with his microscopic observations. These were the young men, who fell into raptures upon every thing, and poured themselves forth in a torrent of splendid phrases. Amongst these the most remarkable were the young poets, who were boiling over with imagination and genius, and were particularly adored by the ladies. To these were associated the blue-stockings, who were as familiar with metaphysics as the less learned part of their sex with scandal, and could talk like any parson in his pulpit. If it seemed strange to Peregrine that the silver threads should twine together out of Gamaheh's brain into an undistinguishable something, he was not a little astonished at what he saw in the heads of those above mentioned. He saw indeed the strange weaving of nerves and veins, but remarked at the same time, that when the owners of them spoke most learnedly on art and science, they did not penetrate the brain, but were reflected outwards, so that all recognition of the thoughts was out of the question. He imparted his observation to Master Flea, who usually sate in a fold of his neckcloth, and Master Flea was of opinion, that what Peregrine took for thoughts were in reality none, but merely words, which in vain endeavoured to become thoughts.
If Mr. Tyss began now to amuse himself in society, his faithful companion also laid aside much of his gravity, and exhibited himself as a knavish little voluptuary, an amiable roué. He could not see the fair neck or the white bosom of any beauty, without slipping out of his hiding-place with the first opportunity, and springing on the inviting spot, where he very dexterously contrived to elude the attacks of pursuing fingers. This manuvre combined a double interest. In the first place, he found a pleasure in it for the thing itself; and then, he hoped, by drawing Peregrine's attention to the fair ones, to cast Dörtje's image into shadow. This, however, seemed to be a fruitless labour, for none of all the ladies, whom he now approached without the least timidity, seemed to him so fair and lovely as his little princess. The great cause however of his continued constancy was, that in none he found the words and thoughts so united in his favour as with her. He was convinced that he could never leave her, and this he repeated incessantly. Master Flea was in no little alarm.
One day Peregrine remarked that the old Alina laughed very cunningly, took snuff more frequently than usual, muttered strangely, in short, acted altogether like one who is big with a secret and would fain be disburthened of it. To every thing she replied, "Yes, one can't tell that!–one must wait!" whether these words were suited to the occasion or not, till at last Peregrine, full of impatience, exclaimed, "Speak it out at once; tell me what is the matter, without creeping around me with those mysterious looks."
"Ah!" cried the old woman, clasping her withered hands together, "ah! the dear little thing! the sweet little puppet!"
"Whom do you mean?" asked Peregrine angrily.
"Ah!" said the old woman, smirking, "ah! whom should I mean but our princess, below here with Mr. Swammer,–your bride, Mr. Tyss?"
"Woman!" cried Mr. Tyss, "unlucky woman, she is here!–in the house!–and you do not tell me till now?"
"Where,"–replied the old woman, without in the least losing her composure,–"where should the princess be but here, where she has found her mother?"
"How!" cried Peregrine–"what is it you say, Alina?"
"Yes," rejoined the old woman, drawing herself up–"yes, Alina is my right name, and who knows what else may come to light, in a short time, before your nuptials?"
Peregrine entreated her, by all the angels and devils, to go on; but, without paying the least attention to his hurry, she seated herself snugly in the arm-chair, drew out her snuffbox, took a prodigious pinch, and demonstrated to Peregrine very circumstantially, that there was no worse failing than impatience.
"Calmness, my son, calmness, is above all things requisite, or otherwise you run the risk of losing all in the moment that you think you have gained it. Before you get a word out of me, you must first promise to seat yourself there, quite quietly like a pretty-behaved child, and for the life of you not to interrupt me in my story."
Nothing was left to Peregrine but to obey the old woman, who, when he had seated himself, related things that were strange enough to hear.
According to the old woman's tale, the two gentlemen, namely, Swammerdamm and Leuwenhock, had another tough struggle in the chamber, and for a time kept up a terrible clatter. Then again all had become quite still, when a heavy moaning had made her fancy that one of the two was mortally wounded; but on peeping through the keyhole she perceived something quite different from what she had expected. Swammerdamm and Leuwenhock had seized George Pepusch, and stroaked and squeezed him with their fists, so that he grew thinner and thinner; during which operation he had uttered the moans heard by the old woman. At last, when he had grown as thin as a thistle-stem, they had tried to squeeze him through the keyhole, and the poor Pepusch was hanging with half his body out, when she ran away in terror. Soon afterwards she heard a loud laughing, and saw Pepusch in his natural form, quietly led out of the house by the two magicians, while at the room-door stood Dörtje and beckoned her in. The little one wished to dress herself, and needed her assistance.
The old woman could not talk enough of the great heap of clothes which the princess brought out of a variety of chests and showed to her, each of which had appeared richer than the other. She declared that none but an Indian princess could possess such jewels as the little one; her eyes still ached with the glitter. She then went on to say how, during the dressing, she had talked of this and that, of the late Mr. Tyss, on the delightful life they had formerly led in the house, and at last the conversation had fallen upon her deceased relations.
"You know, my dear Mr. Tyss, that nothing is more valued by me than my late cousin, the calico-printer's wife. She was in Maintz, and, I believe, even in the Indies, and could speak French and sing. If I owe to my cousin the unchristian name of Alina, I will forgive her that in the grave, since it is from her alone that I have learnt polite manners and the art of speaking elegantly. As I was talking much of my cousin, the little princess asked after my father, my grandfather, and so on, higher and higher up the family. I opened my heart to her, told her that my mother had been almost as handsome as myself, except that I go beyond her in regard to the nose, which I derive from my father, and which is after the shape that has been usual in the family since the memory of man. Then I came to speak of the country-wake, when I waltzed with Serjeant Drumstick, and wore the skyblue stockings with red clocks. Ah, dear God! we are all weak, sinful creatures! But oh! Mr. Tyss, you should have seen how the little princess, who at first had laughed and tittered, that it was a pleasure to hear her, now grew more and more quiet, and gazed on me with such odd looks, that I began to be terribly alarmed.–And then think, Mr. Tyss, on a sudden, before I could prevent it, she lies on her knees before me, and will positively kiss my hand, exclaiming, 'Yes, it is you! Now I recognise you! It is yourself!'–and when, quite astonished, I asked what it all meant,–"
Here the old woman stopt, and, when Peregrine pressed her to go on, she with great gravity and precision took a mighty pinch of snuff, and said,
"You'll know in good time, my son, what farther happened. Every thing has its time and hour."
He was now more urgent than ever with the old woman to proceed, when she burst out into a roaring fit of laughter; upon which he admonished her, with a very sour face, that his room was not exactly the place for her to play off such fooleries. But the old woman, planting her hands in her sides, seemed ready to burst. The burning red of her brow changed to an agreeable mahogany, and Peregrine was upon the point of flinging a glass of water into the old woman's face, when she recovered her breath and speech at the same time.
"I can't help laughing," she said, "I can't help laughing at the foolish little thing. No; such love is no longer on earth. Only think, Mr. Tyss,–"
Here she broke out into a fresh fit of laughter, and Peregrine's patience was well nigh exhausted. At last, with much difficulty, he got out of her that the little princess had taken up the whimsical notion of Mr. Tyss being positively determined to marry the old woman, and had compelled her solemnly to promise to reject his hand.
It seemed to Peregrine as if he were mixed up in a scene of witchery, and he felt so strangely, that even the honest old Alina appeared to him a supernatural kind of being, from whom he could not fly with sufficient speed. But she still detained him, having something to communicate in all haste, that concerned the little princess.
"It is now certain," she said confidentially,–"it is now certain, my dear Mr. Tyss, that the bright star of fortune has arisen, but it is your business to keep it favourable. When I protested to the little one that you were desperately smitten with her, and far from any idea of marrying me, she replied, that she could not be convinced of it and give you her hand till you had complied with a wish that had long sate near her heart. She says, that she had a pretty little negro boy in her service who had fled from her; I have, indeed, denied it, but she maintains that the boy is so little he might live in a nutshell.
"Nothing will ever come of this," exclaimed Peregrine violently, well knowing what the old woman was driving at, and rushed out of the room, and then out of the house, with great vehemence.
It is an established custom, that when the hero of a tale is under any violent agitation, he should run out into a forest, or, at least, into some lonely wood; and the custom is good, because it really prevails in life. Hence it could not be otherwise with Mr. Tyss, than that he ran from his house without stopping, till he had left the city behind him and reached a remote wood. Moreover, as in a romantic history no wood must be without rustling leaves, sighing breezes, murmuring brooks, &c. &c. it is to be supposed that Peregrine found all these things in his place of refuge. Upon a mossy stone, the lower half of which lay in a bright brook, Peregrine sate down with a firm resolution to reflect on his strange adventures, and, if possible, find the Ariadne clue which might show the way out of this labyrinth of mysteries. The murmurs of the leaves, returning at equal intervals, the monotonous babbling of the waters, the constant clap, clap of a distant mill, soon formed a ground which regulated the thoughts so that they no longer rushed wildly together without time or rhythmus, but became an intelligible melody. Thus, after sitting some time on this pleasant spot, he got to reflect calmly.
"In reality," he said to himself, "a fantastic tale-writer could not have invented wilder events than I have actually gone through in the short space of a few days. Beauty, love itself visits the lonely mysogunist, and a look, a word, is sufficient to fan, in his breast, the flames which he had dreaded without knowing them. But the time, the place, the whole appearance of the strange syren are so mysterious, that it seems to be the result of magic;–And then it is not long before a despised little insect evinces knowledge, understanding, nay, even a sort of supernatural power. And this creature talks of things, which to common minds are incomprehensible, in a way as if it all were nothing more than the familiar to-day and yesterday of usual life, as it appears repeated for the thousandth time.
"Have I come too near the fly-wheel, that dark unknown powers are driving, and has it caught me in its whirlings? Would not one believe, that the reason must be lost with such things, when they cross the path of life? And yet I find myself quite well, withal: nay, it no longer seems strange to me that a Flea-king should have sought my protection, and, in requital have entrusted me with a mystery that opens to me the secrets of thought, and thus sets me above the deceptions of life. But whither will or can all this lead? How, if under this singular mask of a flea, an evil demon lurked, who sought to lure me into destruction, who aimed to rob me of all the happiness that might bloom to me in the possession of Dörtje? Were it not better to get rid at once of the little monster?"
"That was a very pitiful idea, Mr. Tyss!" exclaimed Master Flea, interrupting Peregrine's soliloquy. "Do you imagine that the mystery I have entrusted to you is a trifle? Should not this gift pass for the most decided proof of my sincere friendship? Shame on you for being suspicious! You are surprised at the reason, the mind, of a little despised insect; and that proves,–don't be offended,–the narrowness of your education in science. I wish, in regard to the thinking instinctive soul of animals, you had read the Greek Philo, or, at least, the treatise of Hieronymus Rorarius, 'quod animalia bruta ratione utantur melius homine; or his oration 'Pro muribus;'–or that you knew what Lipsius and the great Leibnitz thought of the mental power of beasts, or that you were aware what the profound Rabbi Maimonides has said about their souls; you would not then take me for a demon on account of my understanding, or measure the spiritual faculties by the proportions of the body. I suppose, at last, you will come to the shrewd opinion of the Spanish physician, Gomez Pereira, who could find nothing more in animals than mere artificial machines, without thought or freedom of will, moving arbitrarily and automatically. Yet, no; I cannot deem you so absurd, and am convinced that you have long ago learnt better through my humble person. Moreover, I do not well understand what you call wonders, or in what way you are able to divide, into the wonderful and natural, the appearances of our being, which, in reality, are ourselves, as we and they mutually condition each other. Do not, therefore, wonder at any thing because it has not yet occurred to you, or because you fancy you do not see the connexion of cause and effect; that only proves the natural or diseased obtuseness of your sight, which injures your perception. But,–do not take it amiss, Mr. Peregrine,–the drollest part of the business is, that you want to split yourself into two parts, one of which recognises and willingly believes the so-called wonders; the other, on the contrary, is mightily astonished at this recognition and belief. Has it ever occurred to you, that you believe in the images of dreams?"
"I!" exclaimed Peregrine–"My dear fellow, how can you talk of dreams, which are only the result of some disorder in our corporeal or intellectual structure?"
At these words Master Flea burst into a laugh, as fine as it was mocking, and then said to Mr. Tyss, who was not a little confounded,
"My poor friend, is your understanding so little enlightened, that you do not see the folly of such opinions? Since the time that Chaos melted together into plastic matter,–it may be a tolerably long time ago,–the spirit of the universe has formed all shapes out of this existing material, and from this come also dreams and their images. These images are sketches of what has been, or probably of what is yet to be, which the soul rapidly puts together for its amusement, when the tyrant, called body, has released it from its slavish servitude. But here is neither time nor place to refute you, and bring you to a better conviction; perhaps, too, it would be of no use whatever to you: one thing only I should like to explain."
"Dear master," cried Peregrine, "speak, or be silent, as you think proper; do what to you seems best; for I plainly perceive that, however small you may be, you have deep knowledge and sound understanding. You compel from me unconditional confidence, although I do not quite comprehend your figurative modes of speech."
"Learn then," resumed Master Flea, "that you are very strangely implicated in the history of the Princess Gamaheh. Swammerdamm and Leuwenhock, the Thistle, Zeherit, and the Leech-Prince, as well as the Genius, Thetel, are all striving after the princess; and even I myself must confess that, alas! my old passion is reviving, and I could be fool enough to share my sovereignty with the false fair-one. But you,–you, Mr. Peregrine, are the principal person, and, without your consent, Gamaheh can belong to no one. If you wish to understand the more particular connexion of the whole, which I myself do not know, you must speak to Leuwenhock about it; he has found it out, and will certainly let out much, if you will take the pains, and know how to question him."
Master Flea was about to continue, when a man leapt from the bushes in boiling passion, and flew upon Peregrine.
"Ha!" cried George Pepusch, with frantic gestures,–for it was he,–"Ha! faithless, treacherous friend! have I found you?–found you in the fateful hour? Up then! pierce this breast, or fall by my hand."
With this he drew a brace of pistols from his pocket, pressed one into Peregrine's hand, and took his ground with the other, crying, "Shoot, coward! shoot!"
Peregrine placed himself, but declared that nothing should induce him to the incurable madness of entering into a duel with his only friend, without even a suspicion of the cause. At all events he would in no case be the first to begin a murderous attack.
At this Pepusch burst into a wild laugh, and in the same moment the ball went through Peregrine's hat. The latter remained staring at his friend, in profound silence, without picking up the hat, which had fallen to the ground, when Pepusch advanced a few steps towards him, and murmured in a hollow voice, "shoot!"–Peregrine fired his pistol in the air.
With the voice and gestures of a madman, Pepusch now flung himself upon his friend's breast, and cried out, in heart-rending tones,–"She is dying! dying for you, unlucky one! Quick!–save her! You can do it–save her for yourself, and let me perish in my despair!"
Pepusch ran off so fast that Peregrine had lost sight of him on the instant; and now a fearful foreboding came over him, that his friend's mad behaviour must have been occasioned by something terrible which had happened to the little-one: whereupon he hastened back to the city.
On entering his house, he was met by the old woman, loudly lamenting that the poor princess was on the sudden taken violently ill, and was dying. Mr. Swammer himself had gone after the most celebrated physician in Frankfort.
With the feelings of death at his heart, he crept into Mr. Swammer's room that was opened to him by the old woman. There lay the little-one upon a sofa, pale and stiff like a corse; and it was not till he knelt down and bent over her that he perceived her gentle breathing. No sooner had he touched her icy hand, than a painful smile played about her lips, and she lisped,–
"Is it you, my sweet friend? Have you come to see her once again, who loves you so unspeakably,–who dies, alas! because she cannot breathe without you?"
Dissolving in sorrow, Peregrine poured himself forth in protestations of the tenderest love, and repeated, that nothing in the world was so dear to him that he would not sacrifice it to her. Out of words grew kisses, but in these kisses again words, like the breathings of love, were distinguishable.
"You know, my Peregrine, how much I love you. I can be yours; you, mine,–I can recover on the spot–you will see me bloom again in my youthful splendour, like a flower refreshed by the morning dew, and joyfully lifting up his drooping head–but–give me up the prisoner, my dear, beloved Peregrine, or else you will see me perish, before your eyes, in unutterable death-pangs.–Peregrine–I can no more–it is all over!"