The Serapion Brethren Volume Ii Part 7

CHAPTER V.

WHEREIN THE READER LEARNS WHAT THE D[=A]-L[vE]S IS: ALSO HOW THE GOLDSMITH SAVES THE CLERK OF THE PRIVY CHANCERY FROM A MISERABLE DEATH, AND CONSOLES THE DESPAIRING COMMISSIONSRATH.

Bosswinkel was utterly shaken; more by Mana.s.seh's curse than by the wild piece of spookery which, as he saw, the Goldsmith had been carrying on. And indeed it was a terrible curse, for it set the D[=a]-l[ve]s on to him.

Dear reader, I don't know if you are aware what the D[=a]-l[ve]s of the Jews is.

One of the Talmudists says that the wife of a certain poor Jew, one day on coming into her house, found a weazened, emaciated, naked stranger there, who begged her to give him the shelter of her roof, and food and drink. Being afraid, she went to her husband, and told him, in tones of complaint: "A naked, starving man has come in, asking for food and shelter. How are we to help him, when it is all we can do to keep body and soul together ourselves?" The husband said: "I will go to this stranger, and see how I can get him out of the house."

"Why," he said to him, "hast thou come hither, I being so poor and unable to help thee? Begone! Betake thee to the house of Riches, where the cattle are fat, and the guests bidden to the feast!"

"How," said the stranger, "canst thou drive me from this shelter which I have found? Thou seest that I am bare and naked: how can I go to the house of Riches? Have clothing made for me that shall be fitting, and I will leave thee." "Better," thought the master of the house, "better were it for me to spend all I possess in getting rid of him, than that he should stay, and consume whatever I earn in the time to come, as well." So he killed his last calf, on which he and his wife had thought to live for many days; sold the meat, and with the price provided good clothing for the stranger. But when he took the clothing to him, behold! the stranger, who had before been lean, and short of stature, was become tall and stout, so that the clothing was everywhere too short for him and too narrow. At this the poor Jew was much afraid. But the stranger said: "Give up the foolish idea of getting me out of thy house. Know that I am the D[=a]-l[ve]s!" At this the poor Jew wrung his hands and lamented, crying: "G.o.d of my fathers! I am scourged with the rod of Thine anger, and poverty-smitten for ever and ever! For if thou art the D[=a]-l[ve]s, thou wilt never leave us, but consume all that we have, and always grow bigger and stronger. For the D[=a]-l[ve]s is Poverty; which, when once it takes up its abode in a house, never departs from it, but ever increases more and more."

If, then, the Commissionsrath was terrified that Mana.s.seh, by his curse, had brought poverty into his house, on the other hand, he stood in the utmost dread of Leonhard, who, to say nothing of the extraordinary magical powers at his command, had a certain something about him which created a decided sense of awe. The Commissionsrath could not but feel that there was nothing (with respect to the two of them) which one could "do;" and thus the full brunt of his anger was discharged upon Edmund Lehsen, upon whom he laid all the blame of all the "unpleasantness" which had come about. Over and above all this, Albertine came to the front, and declared, of her own motion, having evidently completely made up her mind on the subject--declared, we say, with the utmost distinctness, that she loved Edmund more than words could express, and would never marry either that insufferable and unendurable old pedant of a Tussmann, or that equally not-to-be-heard-of beast of a Baron Benjamin. So that the Commissionsrath got into the most tremendous rage imaginable, and wished Edmund at (ahem!) Hong Kong, or Jericho, or, to speak idiomatically, "where the pepper grows."

But inasmuch as he could not carry this wish into effect, as the late French Government did (which actually _did_ send objectionable persons to the place "where the pepper grows"), he had to be content with writing Edmund a nice little note, into which he poured all the gall and venom which was in him at the time (and that was not a little), and which ended by telling him that if ever he crossed his, the Commissionsrath's, threshold again, he had better--look out for squalls.

Of course we all know the state of inconsolable despair in which Leonhard found Edmund, when he went to see him, at the fall of the twilight, according to his wont.

"What have _I_ to thank you for?" Edmund cried, indignantly. "Of what service have your protection and all your efforts been to _me_? Your attempts to send this cursed rival of mine out of my way--what has been the result of them? Those d.a.m.nable conjuring tricks of yours--all that _they_ have done has been to send everybody into a state of higgledy-piggledy, where n.o.body knows what to think of anything! Even that darling girl of mine is in the same boat with all the rest of them.

It's just this stupid, nonsensical bosh of yours--that, and nothing else,--which is blocking up _my_ way, and so I tell you. Oh Lord! the only thing which I can see that I can do is to be off to Rome at once, and, I can a.s.sure you, I mean to do it, too."

"Just so," the Goldsmith said: "that is exactly what I want you to do.

Be good enough to remember what I said to you when you first told me you were in love with Albertine. I said my idea was that a young artist was right to be in love, but that he should not go and marry, all at once, because that was most inadvisable. When I said that to you, I brought to your mind, half in jest, the case of Sternbald; but now I tell you, in the utmost seriousness, that, if you really wish to become a great painter, you must put all ideas of marrying out of your head.

Go you away, free and glad, into the Father-land of Art; study, in the most enthusiastic manner that ever you can, the inner-being of that world of Art; and then, and only then, will the technical and practical skill (which you might pick up here) be of the slightest real use to you."

"Good gracious!" Edmund cried, "what an idiot I was to say anything to you about my love affairs. I see, now, that it was you--you, on whom I relied for advice and help in them--who have been purposely throwing difficulties in the way, playing Old Harry with my most special heart's desires, out of mere nastiness and unkindness."

"My good young sir!" the Goldsmith said, "just be good enough to keep a rather quieter tongue in your head. Don't be quite so forcible in your expressions. Please to remember that you have got one or two things to learn, still, before you can quite see through _me_. _I_ can excuse you, of course. I know very well what has upset your temper. This insane spooniness of yours."

"As regards Art," Edmund said, "I really can't see why I should not go to Rome and study, though I do stand in this intimate relation with Albertine. You say yourself that I have a certain amount of 'turn' for painting, and some practical skill, already. What I was thinking of was, that, as soon as I was quite sure that Albertine would be mine, one day, I should be off to Italy; spend a year there, and then come back to my darling girl, having some real knowledge of my work."

"What, Edmund?" the Goldsmith cried; "was this really your idea, arrived at after proper consideration?"

"Yes," Edmund answered: "deeply as I love Albertine, my heart burns for that grand country which is the home of my Art."

"Will you give me your sacred word," the Goldsmith asked, "that if you are sure that Albertine is yours you will be off at once to Italy?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Edmund replied, "inasmuch as it is my firm determination to do so? It always has been so, and would be so--if she were to be mine (I have my doubts as to whether she over will or not").

"Well, Edmund," the Goldsmith said, "be of good courage. This firm resolve of yours has gained you your sweetheart. I give you my word of honour that in a very few days Albertine will be your affianced wife.

And you know well enough that you need have no doubt as to my having the power to keep my word."

Joy and rapture beamed from Edmund's eyes; and the mysterious Goldsmith went quickly away, leaving him to all the sweet hopes and dreams which had been awakened in his heart.

In an out-of-the-way corner of the Thiergarten, under a shady tree, the Clerk of the Privy Chancery, Mr. Tussmann, was lying "like a dropped acorn," as Celia, in 'As You Like It,' expresses it, or like a wounded knight, pouring forth his heart's complainings to the perfidious autumn breeze.

"Oh, G.o.d of justice!" he lamented. "Unhappy, pitiable Clerk of the Privy Chancery that you are! how did you ever come to deserve all the misery which has fallen to your share? Thomasius says that the estate of matrimony in no wise hinders the acquisition of wisdom. And yet, though you have only been _thinking_ of entering into that estate, you have nearly lost that proportion of understanding (and it was not so very small, neither,) which originally fell to your share. Whence comes the aversion which dear Miss Bosswinkel displays towards your--not particularly striking, but still, fairly well endowed--personality? Are you a politician, who ought not to take a wife (as some have laid down), or an expert in the laws, who (according to Cleobolus) ought to give his wife a licking if she misbehaves herself? Am I either of those, that this beautiful creature should be warranted in entertaining some certain quantum of bashful repugnance to me? Why, oh, why, dearest Clerk of the Privy Chancery, Tussmann, must you go and get mixed up with a lot of horrible wizards, and raging painters, who took your face for a stretched canvas, and painted a Salvator Rosa picture on it without saying with your leave or by your leave? Aye! that's the worst of the business! I put all my trust in my friend, Herr Seccius, whose knowledge of chemistry is so extensive and so profound, and who can help people out of every difficulty. But all in vain! The more I rub my face with the liquid he gave me, the greener I get! though the green does take on the most extraordinary variety of different tints and shades that anybody could imagine. My face has been a face of spring, of summer, and of autumn. Ah, yes! it's this greenness which is driving me to my destruction. And if I don't attain to the whiteness of winter (the proper colour for me), I shall run desperate, pitch myself into this frog-pond here, and die a green death!"

It was no wonder that Tussmann complained most bitterly, for the colour of his countenance was a very great annoyance to him. It was not like any ordinary oil-colour, but as if it were some cleverly compounded tincture or dye, sunk into his skin, and not to be obliterated by any human means. In the day-time the poor wretch dared not go about except with his hat down over his eyes, and a pocket-handkerchief before his face. And even when night came on he could only venture to go flitting through the more out-of-the-way streets at a gallop. He dreaded the street-boys, and he also was afraid that he might come across somebody belonging to his office, as he had reported himself sick.

We often feel any trouble that has befallen us more keenly in the silent hours of night than during the more stirring daylight. And so--as the clouds rolled blacker and blacker over the sky, as the shadows of the trees fell deeper, and the autumn wind soughed louder and louder through the branches--Tussmann, as he pondered over all his wretchedness, got into a state of the profoundest despair.

The terrible idea of jumping into the green frog-pond, and so terminating a baffled career, a.s.sailed his mind so irresistibly that he looked on it as an unmistakable hint of destiny, which he was bound to obey.

"Yes!" he cried, getting up from the gra.s.s, where he had been lying; "yes!" he shouted; "it's all over with you, Clerk of the Privy Chancery! Despair and die, good Tussmann; Thomasius can't help you! On, to a green death! Farewell, terrible Miss Albertine Bosswinkel! Your husband, that was to have been--whom you despised so cruelly--you will never see again! Here he goes, into the frog-pond!"

Like a mad creature he rushed to the edge of the basin (in the darkness it looked like a fine, smooth, broad road, with trees on each side of it), and there he remained standing for a time.

Doubtless the notion of the nearness of death affected his mind; for he sang, in a high-pitched, penetrating voice, that Scotch song, which has the refrain--

"Green grow the rashes, oh!

Green grow the rashes!"

And he s.h.i.+ed the 'Diplomatic Ac.u.men,' and the 'Handbook for Court and City,' and also 'Hufeland, on the Art of Prolonging Life,' into the water, and was in the very act of jumping after them, when he felt himself seized from behind by a pair of powerful arms.

He at once recognized the well-known voice of the necromantic Goldsmith. It said--"Tussmann, what are you after? I beg you not to make an a.s.s of yourself; don't go playing idiotic tricks of this sort."

Tussmann strove with all his might to get out of the Goldsmith's grasp, while, scarcely capable of utterance, he croaked out--

"Herr Professor! I am in a state of desperation, and all ordinary considerations are in abeyance. Herr Professor, I sincerely trust you will not take it ill if a Clerk of the Privy Chancery, who is (as we have said) in a state of desperation, and who (in ordinary circ.u.mstances) is well versed in the _convenances_ of official etiquette--I say, I hope you won't take it ill, Herr Professor, if I a.s.sert, openly and unceremoniously, that (under all the circ.u.mstances of the case) I wish to heaven that you and all your magic tricks were at the devil! along with your unendurable familiarity, your 'Tussmann!

Tussmann!' never giving me my official t.i.tle!----there!"

The Goldsmith let him go, and he tumbled down, exhausted, in the long, wet gra.s.s.

Believing himself to be in the basin, he cried out, "Oh, cold death!

oh, green rashes! oh, meadows! I bid ye farewell. I leave you my kindest wishes, dearest Miss Albertine Bosswinkel. Commissionsrath, good-bye! The unfortunate 'intended' is lying amongst the frogs that praise G.o.d in the summer time."

"Tussmann," cried the Goldsmith, in a powerful voice, "don't you see that you're out of your senses, and worn out and wretched into the bargain? You want to send me to the devil! What if I _were_ the Devil, and should set to and twist that neck of yours, here on this spot, where you think you're lying in the water?"

Tussmann sighed, groaned, and shuddered as if in the most violent ague.

"But I mean you kindly, Tussmann," the Goldsmith said; "and your desperate condition excuses everything. Get up, and come along with me." And he helped him to get on his legs.

Tussmann, completely exhausted, said, in a whisper--

"I am completely in your power, most honoured Herr Professor. Do what you will with my miserable body; but I most humbly beg you to spare my immortal soul."

"Do not talk such absurd nonsense," the Goldsmith said, "but come along with me as fast as you can." He took hold of Tussmann by the arm, and led him away. But when they came to where the walk which leads to the Zelten crosses at right angles, he pulled up, and said--

"Wait a moment, Tussmann. You're wet through, and look like I don't know what. Just let me wipe your face, at all events."

The Goldsmith took a handkerchief of dazzling whiteness out of his pocket, and wiped Tussmann's face with it.

The bright lights of the Weberschen Zelt were visible, s.h.i.+ning brightly through the trees. Tussmann cried out, in alarm--

"For G.o.d's sake, Herr Professor, where are you taking me? Not into town? not to my own lodgings? not (oh, heavens!) into society, amongst my fellow-men? Good heavens! I can't be seen. Wherever I go I give rise to unpleasantness--create a _scandalum_."