Chapter XIX: Section VII (5)

"What you say," answered Lothair, "reminds me of a most extraordinary fellow whom I met with in a theatrical troupe in a small town in the south of Germany, who was the exact image of that 'pedant' (to speak technically) in Wilhelm Meister. Insupportable as he now was on the stage in his little minor parts, _praying_ them out in the most direful monotony, it was said that formerly, in his younger days, he had been a capital actor, and used to play, for instance, those sly, scampish inn-keepers which, in older times, used to occur in almost every comedy, and over whose total disappearance from the stage the host in Tieck's 'Verkehrter Welt' complains. When I knew this man he seemed to have completely accepted his fate, which truely had been a pretty hard one, and, in complete apathy, to place no value on anything in the world, least of all on himself. Nothing penetrated the crust which the heaping up of the most complete wretchedness had formed over the surface of his better self, and he was perfectly satisfied with himself under it; and yet there often beamed out of his deep-set, clever eyes the gleam of a higher intelligence, and there would rapidly jerk over his face the expression of a bitter irony, so that the exaggerated submissiveness with which he bore himself towards every one--and more particularly towards his manager (a silly young man, full of vanity)--took, in him, the form of an ironical contempt. On Sundays he used to take his seat at the lower end of the _table d'hôte_ of the best hotel in the place, dressed in a good well-brushed suit of clothes, whose cut and extraordinary pattern indicated the actor of a long by-gone period; and there he enjoyed a hearty meal, never saying a word to a soul, although he was exceptionally temperate, particularly as regarded the wine, for he scarcely half-emptied the bottle which was placed before him. At each filling of his glass he made a courteous bow to the landlord, who gave him his Sunday dinner in return for his teaching his children reading and writing. It happened that I was dining one Sunday at this _table d'hôte_, and found only one vacant seat, which was at this old fellow's side. I hastened to occupy this place, hoping that I might have the good fortune to bring to the surface that better spirit which must be shut up within the man. It was difficult, almost impossible, to get hold of that spirit. Just when one thought one had him, he suddenly dived down, and slunk away in utter humility of submissiveness. At length, after I had with difficulty induced him to swallow a glass or two of good wine, he seemed to begin to thaw a little, and spake with visible emotion of the fine old theatrical times, now past and gone, apparently never to return. The tables were being cleared; one or two of my friends joined themselves to me; the player wanted to take his leave. I held him fast, though he made the most touching protests. A poor superannuated actor, he said, was no fit company for gentlemen such as we; it would be better that he should not stay, it was not his place, and so forth. It was not so much to my powers of persuasion as to the irresistible attractions of a cup of coffee, and a pipe of the best Knaster, which I had in my pocket, that I could attribute his remaining. He spoke with vividness and _esprit_ of the old theatrical days. He had seen Eckhoff, and acted with Schroeder. It came out that the untuned state in which he was now so marred proceeded from the circumstance that those by-gone days had been, for him, the world wherein he had breathed freely, and moved unconstrainedly, and that, now that he was thrown forth out of that period, he had no firm standing-point that he could get hold of. But how marvellously did this man astonish us when, having become thoroughly at his ease, and free from constraint with us, he spoke the speech of the Ghost in Hamlet, as given in Schroeder's version (Schlegel's translation he knew nothing about), with a power of expression which touched our hearts; and we were all moved to admiration at the manner in which he delivered several passages from the part of Oldenhelm (for he would have nothing to say to the name 'Polonius'), rendering them in such a way that we distinctly saw before our eyes the courtier, in his second childhood now, but who had clearly not lacked worldly wisdom in former times, and still showed distinct traces of it. This he brought before us in a manner very seldom seen on the boards. All this, however, was but the prelude to a scene which I never saw the parallel of, and which I can never forget. It is here that I really, for the first time, come to what, during this conversation of ours, brought to my remembrance the old actor in question, and my worthy Serapion Brethren must pardon me if I have made my introduction to this somewhat too long. This man was compelled to undertake those wretched subordinate parts which we were talking of, and thus it chanced that, some days after the occasion I have been speaking of, he had to play the part of the 'Manager' in the piece 'The Rehearsal,' which the _Impresario_ had altered to suit himself, thinking he particularly excelled in it. Whether it was that the conversation with us has stirred up his inner, better self, or that, perhaps (as it was rumoured afterwards), on that day he had reinforced his natural power with wine--contrary as that was to his usual custom-- he had no sooner come upon the stage than he appeared to be a totally different man from what he had been at other times. His eyes sparkled, and the hollow wavering voice of the worn-out hypochondriac was transformed into a clear, resonant bass, such as is employed by jovial characters of the old style; for instance, the rich uncles who, in the exercise of poetical justice, punish folly and reward virtue. The beginning of the piece gave no indication of what was to come; but how amazed was the audience when, after the first changes of dress had been made, the strange creature turned upon the manager with sarcastic smiles, and addressed him somewhat as follows: 'Would not the respected audience have recognised our good So-and-so' (he mentioned the manager's name here), 'just as readily as I did myself at the first glance? Is it possible to base the power of deception on a coat cut in a particular fashion, or on a more or less frizzled wig? and in this way to stuff out a meagre talent, unsupported by any vigour of intelligence, like a child deserted by its nurse? The young man who is trying to pass himself off upon me, in this unskilled manner, as a many-sided artist, a chameleontic genius, need not gesticulate so immoderately with his hands, nor fold himself up like a pocketknife after each of his speeches, nor roll his r's so fearfully; and if he had not done so, I believe that a highly-prized audience (any more than I myself) would not have recognised our little manager in one instant, as has been the case now, to such an extent that it is pitiable. But, inasmuch as the piece has got to go on for another half-hour, I shall conduct myself, this once more, as if I didn't see it; although the affair is terribly tedious and uncongenial to me.' Be it enough to say that upon each fresh entrance of the manager, the old fellow ridiculed his acting in the most delicious manner; and it may be fancied that this was accompanied by the most ringing laughter of the audience; whilst the best part of it all was that the manager, completely absorbed in his numerous changes of costume, was absolutely unconscious of what was going forward till the very last scene. Perhaps the old fellow may have made a wicked compact with the theatre tailor; but it is a fact that the wretched manager's wardrobe had got into the most complete confusion, so that the intermediate scenes which the old man had to fill out lasted much longer than usual, giving him time enough to let the fulness of his bitter mockery of the poor manager stream forth in all its glory, and even to imitate his manner of speaking, saying many things with a wicked verity which sent the audience out of itself. The whole piece was turned topsy-turvy, so that the stop-gap intermediate scenes became the principal and important part of the business. It was delightful, too, how the old fellow sometimes told the audience beforehand how the manager was going to appear, mimicking his gestures and attitudes; and that he attributed the ringing laughter, which really belonged to the old fellow's admirable imitation of him, to his own success in making up. At last, however, the manager could not possibly help finding out what the old fellow was doing, and you may suppose he flew at him like a raging wild boar, so that it was all that he could do to escape mishandling. He did not dare to appear on the stage again; but the audience and the public had got so fond of the old actor, and took his side with so much zeal, that the manager (burdened, moreover, since that celebrated evening, with the curse of ludicrosity), found himself compelled to close his theatre, and betake himself elsewhere. Several respectable townsmen, with the innkeeper at their head, met, and collected a considerable sum of money for the old actor, enough to enable him to have done for ever with the worries of the stage, and end his days in comfort in the place. But marvellous, nay, unfathomable, is the mind of an actor! Before a year was over he suddenly disappeared, nobody knew whither, and presently he was discovered travelling with a strolling company, quite in the same subordinate position from which he had so recently shaken himself clear."

"With a very slight 'moral application,'" said Ottmar, "this tale of the old actor belongs to the moral codex of all stage-players, and of those who desire to become players."

During this, Cyprian had risen silently, and, after walking once or twice up and down the room, taken his position behind the window curtain. Just when Ottmar ceased speaking, a blast of wind came suddenly howling and raging in. The lights threatened to go out; Theodore's writing-table seemed to become alive; hundreds of papers flew up, and were wafted about the room; the strings of the old piano groaned aloud.

"Hey, hey!" cried Theodore, as he saw his literary notices, and who knows what other written matter, at the mercy of the raging autumn storm. "Hey, hey, Cyprianus, what are you about?" And they all set to work to keep the lights in, and shield themselves from the thick snowflakes which came swirling in.

"It is true," said Cyprian, shutting the window, "the weather won't let one look to see what it is."

"Tell me," said Sylvester, taking the wholly absentminded and deeply preoccupied Cyprian by both hands, and forcing him to sit down again in the seat he had left, "only tell me--that is all I ask--where have you been? In what distant region have you been wandering? for far, far away from us has that restless spirit of yours been bearing you again."

"Not so very far away from you as you may suppose," answered Cyprian. "And, at all events, it was your own conversation which opened the door for my departure. You had been saying so much about Comedy, and Vincenz was stating his conclusion (justly resulting from experience), that amongst us the fun which plays with itself is lost. It occurred to me that, on the other hand, many real talents have displayed themselves in tragedy, in more and most recent times, and along with this thought I was struck by the remembrance of a writer who began, with genuine, high-aspiring genius, but suddenly, as if carried away by some fatal eddy, went under, so that his name is scarcely ever heard of."

"There," said Ottmar, "you were going in exact opposition to Lothair's principle--that true genius never goes under."

"And Lothair is right," answered Cyprian, "if he holds that the fiercest storms of life cannot blow out the flame which blazes forth from the inner spirit,--that the bitterest adversities, the keenest misfortunes fight in vain against the inner heavenly might of the soul, which only bends the bow to deliver the arrow with the greater power. But how were it if in the first inner germ of the embryo there lurked the poisonous parasite larva, the worm, which, developing along with the beautiful blossom, gnaws at its life, so that it bears its death within itself? No storm is then needed for its destruction."

"In that case," said Lothair, "your genius would be wanting in the first condition indispensible to the tragic-poet who would enter upon life free, and in possession of his powers. I mean that such a poet's genius must be absolutely healthy--sound--free from the slightest ailment, such as psychic weakness, or, to use your language, anything such as congenital poison. Who could, and can, congratulate himself more on such a soundness of mental constitution than our grand Gœthe, mighty father of us all? It is with such an unweakened strength as his, with such an inward purity, that heroes are begotten, such as Goetz von Berlichingen and Egmont! And if we cannot, perhaps, admit such a heroic power (in quite the same degree) in our Schiller, there is, on the other hand, that pure sun-glance of the inner soul beaming round his heroes in which we, beneficently warmed, feel as powerful and strong as their creator. And we must not forget the Robber Moor, whom Ludwig Tieck, with perfect justice, calls the Titanic creation of a young and daring imagination. But we are getting far from the tragic poet whom you were speaking of, Cyprian, and I hope you will tell us at once to whom you allude, although I fancy I have a strong idea?"

"I was very nearly breaking in upon your conversation, as I did once before, with strange words and sayings," answered Cyprian, "which you would not have understood, inasmuch as you were not seeing the images of my waking-dream. Nevertheless, I cry out 'No! Since the days of Shakespeare there never stalked such a Being across the stage as this superhumanly terrible, gruesome old man!' And that you may not remain a moment longer in doubt on the subject, I add at once that no modern poet can congratulate himself on such a loftily tragic and powerful creation as the author of the Söhne des Thales."

The friends looked at each other in amazement. They made a rapid pass-muster of the principal characters in Zacharias Werner's pieces, and then came to the same conclusion--that in every case there was a certain element of the strange and singular, and often of the commonplace, mingled with the truly great, the grandly tragic which seemed to indicate that the author had never come to any really clear seeing of his heroes, and that he was doubtless deficient in that absolute health and soundness of the inner mind which Lothair considered indispensible to every writer of tragedy.

Theodore alone had been laughing within himself, as if he were of another opinion, and now began:

"Halt! Halt! ye worthy Serapion Brethren. Don't be in too great a hurry. I know very well, in fact, I am the only one of you who can know, that Cyprian is speaking of a work which the writer never finished, which is consequently unknown to the world, although friends in the writer's neighbourhood, to whom he communicated sketches of scenes from it, had ample reason to be convinced that it would rise to the position of being amongst the grandest and most powerful, not only that he ever produced, but which have been seen in modern days."

"Of course," said Cyprian, "I was talking of the second part of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee,' in which it is that the terrible, gruesome, gigantic character to whom I was alluding occurs, the old King of Prussia, Waidewuthis. It may be impossible for me to give you a distinct idea of this character, which the poet, by virtue of some mighty spell at his command, seems to have conjured up from the mysterious depths of the subterranean kingdoms. It must suffice if I enable you to look into the interior mechanism of the springs which the poet has placed within it to set this production of his into due activity of movement. According to historical tradition, the earliest 'culture' of the ancient Prussians was originated by their king, Waidewuthis. He introduced the rights of property. The fields were divided, and agriculture carried on. He also gave the nation a form of religious worship, inasmuch as he himself carved three graven images, to which sacrifices were offered beneath an ancient oak-tree, where they were set up; but a terrible power grasped hold of him (though himself all-powerful, the god of the nation which he ruled), those rude graven images, carved by his own hands, that the people's force and will might bow down before them as embodiments of a higher energy, suddenly awoke into life. And what inflamed those senseless images thus into life was the fire which the Satanic Prometheus stole from Hell. Rebellious thralls of their Lord and Maker, those idols began to wield against himself the weapons with which he had armed them. And thus commences the monstrous conflict of the Superhuman principle with the Human. I do not know if I have been intelligible to you--if I have quite succeeded in representing to you the poet's colossal idea; but, as Serapion Brethren, I would charge you to look deep down, as I have done, into the terrible abyss which the poet has opened and disclosed, and feel the terror and awe which overwhelms me even now as I think of that Waidewuthis."

"And in truth," said Theodore, "our Cyprian has turned quite white; which of course proves how the whole grand sketch of the extraordinary picture which the poet displayed before him--but from which he has shown us only one of the principal groups--has stirred his inner soul. But, as regards Waidewuthis, I think it would have been sufficient to say that the poet, with astonishing power and originality, conceived this Daemon with so much grandeur, power, and might, so gigantic a figure, that he appears quite worthy of the contest, and that the triumph, the glory of Christianity must beam forth all the brighter in consequence. It is true that in many of his characteristics, the old monarch appears to me as if he were--to speak with Dante--the Imperador del Doloroso Regno in person, walking on earth. The catastrophe of his overthrow, that triumph of Christianity, which is the final chord towards which everything strives, in the whole work (which to me, at all events, according to the design of the second part, seems to belong to another world), I have never been able to form a conception of to myself in dramatic form; although in quite other sounds, and in those only, I did conceive the possibility of a conclusion which, in terrific sublimity, would surpass everything else which could be conceived of. But this only became apparent to me when I had read Calderon's great 'Magus.' Moreover, the poet has not uttered himself as to the mode in which he would finish the work; at least nothing of the sort has reached my ears."

"It seems to me," said Vincent, "on the whole very much as though it had gone with the poet, as to his work, as it did with old King Waidewuthis and his graven images. It grew over his head; and that he could not get control of his own power is proved by the very failure of his inward energy, which, at length, does not allow anything sound, healthy, vigorous, to come to the light of day. On the whole, even if Cyprian is right in thinking that the old king had the best possible dispositions for turning out a splendid and powerful Satan, I do not see how he could have got into due relation with humanity again. The Satan would have had to be, at the same time, a grand, powerful kingly hero."

"And that is exactly what he was," answered Cyprian. "But to prove this to you, I should require to know whole scenes by heart, which the author communicated to us. I remember one in particular, very vividly, which seemed to me magnificent. King Waidewuthis knew that none of his sons would succeed him in the crown, so he selected a boy--I think he appeared about twelve years old--as his successor. In the night they two--Waidewuthis and the boy--are lying by the fire, and Waidewuthis. occupies himself in kindling the boy's courage towards the idea of the godly-might of the Euler of a People. This address of Waidewuthis seemed to me quite masterly, quite perfect. The boy, who has a young tame wolf, his faithful playmate, in his arms, listens attentively to the old man's words; and when the latter at last asks him if, for the sake of power he would be capable of sacrificing even his wolf, the boy looks him gravely in the face, and without a word, throws the wolf into the flames."

"I know," cried Theodore, as Vincent smiled strangely, and Lothair seemed on the point of breaking out from inward impatience, "I know what you are going to say--I hear the severe sentence of condemnation with which you dismiss the author; and I will admit that I should have perfectly agreed with you only a day or two ago, and been of the same opinion, not so much from conviction, as from anger that the author should have entered upon paths which must for ever carry him away from me, Bo that a re-encounter between us must have appeared scarcely conceivable, and moreover, almost not to be desired. It would have been quite justifiable for the world, considering the manner in which the author had commenced his career, to think that there was evidence of an untruthful inconstancy--a weathercockiness--of mind, disposed to cast over others the veil which self-deception had woven around him; although, all this time, the truth had torn this veil asunder, with rude vigour, so that the world could discern, in his heart, a wicked spirit of self-seeking, endeavouring to gain the glitter of false fame for purposes of self-beatification. But I am obliged to confess that his preface to his sacred drama, 'The Mother of the Macabees,' has completely disarmed me. And this preface can only be perfectly understood by the few friends of his who were closely associated with him in his most beautiful blossoming-time. It contains the most affecting admissions of culpable weaknesses; the most pathetic lamentations over powers for ever lost. Those things may have escaped the writer involuntarily, and it is very likely that he did not, himself, perceive that deeper significance which the friends whom he had abandoned must have seen in those words. As I read this preface, I seemed to see, through a dim, colourless ocean of cloud, rays feebly piercing of a lofty, noble spirit, rising beyond the crack-brained follies of immature perversity, and, if not fully conscious of its own value, yet possessing a considerable inkling of its worth. The writer seemed to me much like one of those who are victims of that form of insanity of which the predominant symptom is 'fixed idea.' Those unhappy people are, in their lucid intervals, aware of their delusions; but, to soothe the comfortless horror of that consciousness, they strive to convince themselves that in those very delusions their highest and truest existence lives and moves. And this they do by the most ingenious sophisms; striving also to induce themselves to believe that their consciousness of their delusion is nothing but the sick doubting of Humanity immeshed and enslaved in the Earthly. And in the preface which I am speaking of, the writer touches upon the second part of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee,' admitting this."

"Please don't make such horrible faces, Lothair! Sit still on your chair, Ottmar; don't drum the Russian Grenadiers' March on the elbow of your seat, Vincenz. I really think that the author of the 'Soehne des Thales' deserves to be discussed rationally and quietly by us, and I must confess that my heart is very full of this subject, and I cannot help letting the froth which is seething there boil thoroughly over."

"Ha!" cried Vincenz, very loudly and pathetically, "how the froth seethes!--now that is a quotation from the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee,' where the heathen priests sing it in fearful and horrible strains. My dear Serapion-Brother Theodore, you may rage, revile, curse and blaspheme as much as you please, but I must just introduce into this many-sided discussion one little anecdote, which will throw, at all events, a momentary glimpse of sunshine over all those corpse-watchers' countenances. The author of whom we are speaking had got together a few friends that he might read to them the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' from the manuscript. They had heard some passages from it before, which had raised their expectations to the highest pitch. The author had, as usual, seated himself in the centre of the circle, at a small table where two candles were burning in tall candlesticks. He had taken his manuscript out of his breast-pocket, and laid down before him his big snuff-box, and his blue-and-white checked pocket-handkerchief. Profound silence reigned. Not a breath was audible. The author, making one of his extraordinary faces, which defy all description, began as follows:--

"'Bankputtis!--Bankputtis!--Bankputtis!'

"Of course you remember that, in the opening scene, at the rising of the curtain, the Prussians are discovered, assembled by the seashore, collecting amber; and they invoke the deities who preside over this. Very well. The author, as I have said, began with the words--

"'Bankputtis! Bankputtis!"

"Then there was a short pause; after which there came forth out of a corner the soft voice of a member of the audience, saying: 'My dearest and most beloved friend! Most glorious of all authors; if you have written the whole of this most admirable poem of yours in that infernal language, not one soul of us understands a single syllable of it. For God's sake, be so kind as to start with a translation of it.'"

The friends laughed; but Cyprian and Theodore remained silent and grave. Before the latter could begin to speak, Ottmar said: "It is impossible, in this connection, that I should forget the extraordinary, nay, almost preposterously absurd, meeting of two men who were--at all events as concerned their opinions upon Art and their views about it--absolutely heterogeneous in their natures. Indisputable as it may be that Werner carried the idea of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' about with him for a long time, to the best of my knowledge the first impulse to his writing it came to him from Iffland, who was anxious that he should write a tragedy for the Berlin stage. The 'Soehne des Thales' was then attracting much attention, and perhaps that dramatic writer may have been interested in this newly-developed talent, or he may have thought he saw that this young _débutant_ was capable of being trained to the performance of the systematic round of theatre tricks, and would acquire a skilled 'stage-hand.' However this may be, think of Iffland with the manuscript of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' in his hands. Iffland--to whom the tragedies of Schiller (which then, in spite of all opposition, had made their way, chiefly through the great Fleck) were really disgustful, in the depths of his soul; Iffland, who although he did not dare, for dread of that sharp lash which he had felt already, to speak out his real opinion, had put _this_ in print: 'Tragedies which contain grand historical incidents, and a crowd of characters, are the ruin of the stage;' adding, 'on account of the tremendous expenses,' but thinking, in his heart, '_dixi et salvavi_.'--Iffland, who would have been too pleased to put upon his privy-councillors, secretaries, and so forth, tragic _cothurni_ made after his own pattern--read the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' in the light of its being a tragedy expressly written for the Berlin stage, which he himself should set out into scenes, and in which he should play nothing less than the Ghost of Bishop Adalbert, murdered by the Pagan Prussians, very frequently appearing on the stage as a terror-inspiring character not sparing of partly edifying, partly mystic speeches, while at every mention of the name of Christ a flame breaks out of his forehead, to instantaneously disappear again. It was impossible to throw this piece overboard (as would have been done in a moment in the case of the _dii minores_), notwithstanding that it was one which was full of improbabilities, and bristling with difficulties (much more real difficulties from the stage-manager's point of view, than many Shakesperian plays, in which those difficulties are more apparent than real). What had to be done was to express great admiration of it; to laud it up to the skies, and then to declare, with deep regret, that the capabilities of the stage were not practically sufficient for the production of a thing so great. It was this which had to be done; and the letter in which Iffland stated all this to the author (the construction of which was on the lines of the well-known form of refusal of the Italians, '_ben parlato-ma_'), was, of course, a classical master-piece of theatrical diplomacy. It was not from the nature of the piece itself that the manager deduced the impossibility of representing it on the stage; he merely, in a courteous manner, complained of the stage-manager, the property-men, and the carpenters, to whose magic there were such narrow limits that they were not even capable of making a Saint's glory shine in the air. But, no more on the subject. It is for Theodore to make such excuses as he can for the errors of his friend."

"To defend and excuse this friend of mine," said Theodore, "I fear would be a very unsatisfactory thing to try to do. I should much prefer to set you a psychical problem to solve, which ought, really, to lead you to consider how peculiar influences may work upon the psychical organism; or, indeed (to return to Cyprian's simile, the worm engendered along with the most beautiful flower), on the worm which is to poison and kill. We are told Hysterism in the mother is not transmitted, by heredity, to the son, but that it does produce in him a peculiarly lively imagination, even to the extent of eccentricity; and I believe that there is one of ourselves in whose case the correctness of this theory is confirmed. Now, how might it be with the effect of actual _insanity_ of the mother upon the son, although he does not, as a rule, inherit that either? I am not speaking of that weak, childish sort of mental aberration in women, which is often the result of an enfeebled nervous system; what I have in view is that abnormal mental state in which the psychic principle, volatilized into a sublimate by the operation of the furnace of imagination, has been converted into a poison, which has attacked the vital spirits, so that they have become sick unto death, and the human creature, in the delirium of this malady, believes the dream of another life-condition to be actual waking reality. Now, a woman highly gifted mentally, and largely endowed with imagination and fancy, may in those circumstances be much more like to a heavenly prophet than to an insane creature, and in the excitement of her paroxysms may say things, which to many persons would appear much more like the direct inspiration of higher intelligences than the mere utterances of insanity. Suppose that the fixed idea of such a woman consisted in her believing herself to be the Virgin Mary, and her son Christ, and let this be repeated daily to the boy, who is not taken away from her, whilst his powers of comprehension gradually develop themselves. He is over-bountifully endowed with talent and intelligence, and specially with a glowing imagination. Friends and teachers whom he respects and believes all tell him that his poor mother is out of her mind, and he himself sees the craziness of the idea, which is not so much as new to him, since it exists in nearly every lunatic asylum. But his mother's words sink deeply into his heart; he thinks he is hearing announcements from another world, and feels vividly the belief taking root within him upon which he bases his system of thinking. Above all, he is very much struck and imbued with what the maternal prophetess tells him regarding the trials of this world; the scoffing and despite which the consecrated one must endure. He finds this all realized, and in his boyish melancholy looks upon himself as a Divine victim, when his schoolfellows make fun of him for his quaint-looking clothes and his timid awkward manners. What follows? Must there not arise in the breast of such a youth the belief that the so-called insanity of his mother, which seems to _him_ lofty and sublime beyond the comprehension of the common herd, is really neither more nor less than a prophetic announcement, in metaphorical language, of the high destiny in store for him, chosen by the powers of heaven! Saint--prophet!--could there be stronger impulses to mysticism for a youth fired with a glowing power of imagination? Let it be further supposed that he is physically and psychically excitable to the most destructive extent, and apt to fall a prey to and be carried away by the most irresistible tendency to vice, and the wicked lusts of the world.... I desire to pass in haste, and with averted face, by the fearful abysses of human nature whence the germs of those tendencies spring, which might take root and flourish in the heart of the unfortunate youth without his being further to blame than in that he had a hot blood, only too congenial a soil for the luxuriant poison-plant.... I dare not go further; you feel the terrible nature of the strife which tears the heart of the unhappy youth. Heaven and hell are drawn up in battle array; and it is this mortal combat imprisoned within him which gives rise to phenomena on the surface in utter discord with everything else conditioned by mortal nature, and capable of no interpretation whatever. How, then, if the glowing power of imagination of this man (who in youth imbibed the germ of those eccentricities from his mother's mental state) should subsequently, at a time when Sin, bereft of all her adornments, accuses herself, in all her repulsive nakedness, for the hellish deceptions of the past, lead him, driven by the pain and remorse of his repentance, to take refuge in the mysticism of some religious _cultus_, coming to meet him with hymns of victory and perfume of incense? How when then, out of the most hidden depths, the voice of some dark spirit within should become audible, saying: 'It was but mortal blindness which led you to believe that there was dissension in your heart. The veil has fallen, and you perceive that sin is the stigma of your heavenly nature, of your supernatural calling, wherewith the Eternal has marked the chosen one. It was only when you set yourself to offer resistance to sinful impulse, to contend with the Eternal Power, that you were abandoned in your blindness and degeneracy. The purified fires of hell shine in the glories of the Saints.' And thus does this terrible hypermysticism impart to the lost one a consolation which completes the ruin of the rotten walls of the edifice of his existence; just as it is when the madman derives comfort and enjoyment from his madness, that his recovery is known to be hopeless."

"Oh, please go no further," cried Sylvester. "You hurried, with averted face, past an abyss which you avoided looking into; but to me it seems as if you were leading us along upon narrow, slippery paths, where terrible and threatening gulfs yawn at us on either side. What you last said reminded me of the horrible mysticism of Pater Molinos, the dreadful doctrine of Quietism. I shuddered when I read the leading theorem of that doctrine. 'Il ne faut avoir nul égard aux tentations, ni leur opposer aucune résistance. Si la nature se meut, il faut la laisser agir; ce n'est que la nature!'[1] This, of course, would carry----"

[Footnote 1: "Toute opération active est absolument interdite par Molinos. C'est même offenser Dieu, que de ne pas tellement s'abandonner à lui, que l'on soit comme un corps inanimé. De-là vient, suivant cette hérésiarque, que le vœu de faire quelque bonne œuvre est un obstacle à la perfection, parce que l'activité naturelle est ennemie de la grâce; c'est un obstacle aux opérations de Dieu et à la vraie perfection, parce que Dieu veut agir en nous sans nous. Il ne faut connoître ni lumière, ni amour, ni résignation. Pour être parfait, il ne faut pas même connoître Dieu; il ne faut penser, ni au paradis, ni à l'enfer, ni à la mort, ni à l'éternité. On ne doit point désirer de sçavoir si on marche dans la volonté de Dieu, si on est assez résigné ou non. En un mot, il ne faut point que l'âme connoisse ni son état ni son néant; il faut qu'elle soit comme un corps inanimé. Toute réflexion est nuisible, même celles qu'on fait sur ses propres actions, et sur ses défauts. Ainsi on ne doit point s'embarrasser du scandale que l'on peut causer, pourvu que l'on n'ait pas intention de scandaliser. Quand une fois on a donné son libre arbitre à Dieu, on ne doit plus avoir aucun désir de sa propre perfection, ni des vertus, ni de sa sanctification, ni de son salut; il faut même se défaire de l'espérance, parce qu'il faut abandonner à Dieu tout le soin de ce que nous regarde, même celui de faire en nous et sans nous sa divine volonté. Ainsi c'est une imperfection que de demander; c'est avoir une volonté et vouloir que celle de Dieu s'y conforme. Par la même raison il ne faut lui rendre grâce d'aucune chose; c'est le remercier d'avoir fait notre volonté; et nous n'en devons point avoir." ('Causes célèbres,' par Richer. Tom. ii.: 'Histoire du Procès de la Cadière.')]

"It would carry us a good deal too far," interrupted Lothair, "into the realm of the most horrible dreams, and--to speak generally--of that amount of crack-brainedness of which there can never be any question amongst us Serapion Brethren. So let us abandon the subject of all that sublimity of mental unhingedness which is the foster-mother of religious mania."

Ottmar and Vincenz agreed in this, and added that Theodore had committed a breach of Serapiontic rule by speaking so fully on a subject to some extent strange to the other brethren, in this manner giving himself up to impulses of the moment, and damming up the flow of other communications.

Cyprian, however, look Theodore's part, maintaining that the subject on which, for the most part, he had been speaking, might be thought to possess such an amount of interest (though, as far as he himself was concerned, he must say it was of an uncanny character) that even those to whom the person to whom it had referred had never been known, could not but feel themselves very much attracted and affected by it.

Ottmar thought that he could have felt a certain amount of interest about it if it had been written in a book. Cyprian said that the _sapienti sat_, was enough as regarded it.

In the meantime, Theodore had gone into the next room, and now came back with a veiled picture, which he placed on a table against the wall, setting two candles in front of it. All eyes were bent upon it, and when Theodore quickly removed the cloth from before it an "Ah!" came from all their lips.

It was the author of the 'Soehne des Thales,' a life-size half-length, a most speaking likeness, as if it had been stolen out of a looking-glass.

"Is it possible!" cried Ottmar, enthusiastically. "Yes, from under those bushy eyebrows there gleams from the dark eyes the strange fire of that unlucky mysticism which dragged the poet to his destruction. But the goodness, the kindliness, the lovableness and the talents which beam out of the rest of his features, and this charmingly 'roguish' smile of real humour which plays about the lips, and seems to try unsuccessfully to hide itself in the long, projecting chin, which the hand is stroking so quietly. Of a truth I feel myself more and more drawn to this mystic, who grows the more human the longer one looks at him."

"We all feel the same," cried Lothair and Vincenz.

"Yes, yes," cried the latter, "those sorrowful, gloomy eyes get brighter. You are right, Ottmar, he grows human--_homo factus est_. See, he looks with his eyes--he smiles; presently he will say something that will delight us; some heavenly jest; some fulminating sally of wit is playing about his lips. Out with it, out with it, good Zacharias! Stand on no ceremony! We are your friends, master of reserved irony! Ha! Serapion Brethren! let us elect him, glasses in hand, an honorary member of our Society; we will drink to our brotherhood, and I will pour a libation before his picture, and bedew with a few glittering drops my own varnished Parisian boots into the bargain."

The friends took their filled glasses in hand to carry out Vincenz's suggestion.

"Stop!" cried Theodore. "Let me say a word or two first. To begin with, I hope you will by no means apply that psychical problem of mine (which I perhaps stated somewhat too forcibly) directly to our author here. Rather take it that my object was to show you very vividly and convincingly how dangerous it is to form conclusions about phenomena in a man of which we know nothing as to their deep psychic origin; nay, how heartless, as well as senseless, it is to persecute, with silly scorn and childish derision, one who has been the victim of a depressing influence, such as we ourselves would probably have resisted less successfully. Who shall cast the first stone at one who has grown defenceless because his strength has ebbed away with the heart's-blood flowing from wounds inflicted by his own self-deception? My end is gained now. Even you--Lothair, Ottmar, Vincenz, severe inflexible critics and judges, have quite altered your opinions now that you have seen my poet face to face. His face speaks truth. I must testify that, in the happy days when he and I were friends, he was the most delightful and charming of men in every relation of life. All the oddities, and strange eccentricities of his exterior, and of his whole being (which he himself, with delicate irony, tried to bring to light, rather than to conceal) only produced the effect of rendering him, in the most various surroundings and most diverse circumstances, always in the most attractive manner, utterly delightful. Moreover, he was full of a subtle humour which rendered him the worthy _confrère_ of Hamann, Heppel, and Scheffner. It is impossible that all that blossom of promise can be withered and dead, blighted by the poison breath of a miserable infatuation. No! If that picture could come to life--if the poet were to walk in and sit down actually amongst us here, life and genius would coruscate out of his discourse as of yore. I fain would hope that I see the dawn of a new and brilliant day! May the rays of true wisdom break out more and more brightly; may recovered strength and renewed power of labour produce work which shall show us the poet in the pure glory of the verily inspired singer, even if it does not happen before the late autumn of his days! And to this, ye Serapion Brethren, let us drink in happy expectation."

The friends, forming a semicircle round the picture, clinked their glasses together. "And then," said Vincenz, "it won't matter whether he is Private Secretary, Abbé, or Privy Councillor, Cardinal, or the very Pope; or even a Bishop _in partibus infidelium_, that's to say, of Paphos!"

As was usually the case with Vincenz, he had without intending it, or even being aware of it, stuck a comic tail on to a serious subject. But the friends felt too strangely moved to pay particular attention to this. They sat down again in silence at the table, while Theodore carried the poet's picture back into the next room.

"I had meant," said Sylvester, "to read you this evening a story, for the idea of which I am indebted to a strange chance, or rather, to a strange remembrance. But it is so late that Serapiontic hours would be long over before I had finished it."

"That is very much my case too," said Vincenz, "with my long-promised tale, which I have got pressed against my heart here in the breast-pocket of my coat (that usual _boudoir_ of literary productions) like a pet child. It has sucked itself fat and lusty at the mother's milk of my imagination, and has thereby got so forward and so talkative that if I were to let it begin, it would go on till daybreak. So that it must wait till the next meeting. To talk, I mean to converse, appears dangerous to-night; for, before one knows where one is, some heathen king, or Pater Molinos (or some _mauvais sujet_ or another of the sort), suddenly sits in the midst of us, talking all kinds of unintelligible nonsense. So that if either of us can out with a manuscript with something amusing in it, I hope he will let us hear it."

"If anything which any one of us may be able to produce to-night," said Cyprian, "must seem to be nothing more than a stop-gap, or an intermezzo between other melodies, I may pluck up courage to read to you a trifle which I wrote down many years ago, when I had been passing through a period of much mystery and some danger. I had completely forgotten the existence of the pages in question, until they accidentally came into my hands a short time ago, vividly recalling the times to which they relate. My belief is that what led to the production of this rather chimerical story is much more interesting than the thing itself; and I shall have more to say on that subject when I have finished it."

Cyprian read:

PHENOMENA.

When any allusion was made to the last siege of Dresden, Anselmus turned even paler than he ordinarily was. He would fold his hands in his lap--he would gaze before him, lost in melancholy memories--he would murmur to himself,

"God of Heaven, were I to put my legs into my new riding-boots at the proper time, and run across the bridge towards Neustadt, paying no attention to burning straw, and the bursting shells, I have no doubt that this great personage and the other would, put his head out of his carriage window and say, with a polite bow, 'Come along, my good sir, without any ceremony. I have room for you.' But there was I shut up and hemmed in in the middle of the accursed Marmot's-burrow, all ramparts, embankments, trenches, star-batteries, covered ways, &c., suffering hunger and misery as much as the best of them. Didn't it come to this, that if one happened to turn over the pages of a Roux's dictionary by way of passing the time, and came upon the word 'Eat,' one's exhausted stomach cried out in utter amazement, 'Eat? Now what does that mean?' People who had once on a time been fat buttoned their skin over them, like a double-breasted coat, a natural Spencer! Oh, heavens, if only that Master of the Rolls--that Lindhorst--hadn't been there! Popowicz of course wanted to kill me, but the Dolphin sprinkled marvellous life-balsam out of its silver-blue nostrils. And Agafia!" When he spoke this name, Anselmus was wont to get up from his seat, jump just a little, once, twice, three times; and then sit down again. It was always quite useless to ask him what he really meant, on the whole, by those extraordinary sayings and grimaces. He merely answered, "Can I possibly describe what happened with Popowicz and Agafia without being supposed to be out of my mind?" And every one would laugh gently, as much as to say, "Well, my good fellow, we suppose that whether or not."

One drear, cloudy October evening, Anselmus, who was understood to be somewhere a long way off--came in at the door of a friend of his. He seemed to be moved to the depths of his being, he was kindlier and tenderer than at other times--almost pathetic. His humour (often perhaps too wildly discursive, too universally antagonistic) was bowing itself, tamed and bridled, before the mighty Spirit which had possession of his inner soul. It had grown quite dark, the friend wanted to send for lights. But Anselmus, taking hold of both his arms, said: "If you would, for once, do me a real favour, don't have lights brought. Let's be content with the dim shining of that Astral lamp which is sending its glimmer from the closet there. You can do what you please--drink tea, smoke tobacco, but don't smash any cups, or throw lighted matches on to my new trousers. Either of those things would not only pain me, but would make an unnecessary noise and disturbance in the enchanted garden into which I have at last managed to get to-day, and in which I am enjoying myself to my soul's content. I shall go and lie on that sofa."

He did so. After a considerable pause, he began:

"To-morrow morning at eight o'clock it will be exactly two years since Count von der Lobau marched out from Dresden with twelve thousand men and four-and-twenty guns, to fight his way to the Meissner Hills."

"Well," said his friend, "I have been sitting here on the stretch of an expectation, almost of a devout description, thinking I was going to hear of some celestial manifestation, coming hovering out of your enchanted garden--and this is all? What interest do I take in Count von der Lobau and his expedition? And fancy you remembering that there were just twelve thousand men and four-and-twenty guns. When did military details of the sort begin to effect a lodgment in that head of yours?"

"Are those days of mystery and fatality," said Anselmus, "which we passed through so short a time ago so completely forgotten by you that you no longer recollect the manner in which the armed monster grasped us and drove us? The _noli turbare_ no longer held in check our own exertions of force, and we would not _be_ held in check or protected, for in every heart the demon made deep wounds, and, driven by wild torture, every hand grasped the unfamiliar sword, not for defence, no--for attack, that the hateful ignominy might be atoned for, and revenged, by Death! Even at this hour there comes upon me, in bodily form of flesh and blood, that power which was active in those days of darkness, and drove me forth from art and science into that blood-stained tumult. Was it possible, do you think, for me to go on sitting at my desk? I hurried up and down the streets, I followed the troops when they marched out, as far as I dared, merely to see with my own eyes as much as I could, and from what I Baw to gather some hope, paying no heed to the miserable, deceptive, proclamations and news 'from the seat of war.' Very good. When at length that battle of all battles was fought, when all round us every voice was shouting for joy at new-won freedom, whilst we were still lying in chains of slavery, I felt as if my heart would break. I felt as though I must gain air and freedom, for myself and all who were chained to the stake along with me, by means of some terrible deed. It may seem to you now, and with the knowledge of me which you think you possess, incredible and ludicrous; but I can assure you that I went about with the idea in my mind, the insane idea, that I would set a match to some fort which I knew the enemy had got well-stocked with powder, and blow it into the air."