Master Flea - E. T. A. Hoffmann (love letters to the dead .TXT) 📗

going abroad, Peregrine found, after a more careful search, a tiny box, whereon was written:

"In this is the microscopic glass. If you look steadfastly into the box with your left eye, the glass will immediately be in its pupil; when you want to be freed from the instrument, you have only to gently squeeze the pupil, holding your eye over the box, and the glass will drop into it. I am busy in your service, and risk no little by it, but for so kind a protector I would hazard any thing, as

"Your most devoted servant,

"MASTER FLEA."

Now here would be an excellent opportunity for a genuine romance-writer to expatiate on the difference between lust and love, and, having handled it sufficiently in theory, to illustrate it practically in the person of Mr. Tyss. Much might be said of sensual desires, of the curse of the primal sin, and of the heavenly Promethean spark, which in love inflames that true community of spirit of the two sexes, which forms the actual necessary dualism of nature. Should now the aforesaid Promethean spark--but the reader will perhaps be glad to escape the rest of this dissertation, though he may rest assured there is much in it, whereby he might have been edified, had he been so inclined.

It must be evident to all, that Peregrine only felt desire for Dörtje Elverdink, but that, when he saw Rose Lemmerhirt, the real heavenly love blazed in his bosom. Little thanks, however, would be due to the editor of this most wonderful of all wonderful tales, if, adhering to the stiff, formal pace of renowned romancers, he could not forbear in this place exciting the weariness essentially requisite to a legitimate romance.--No; let us go to the point at once: sighs, lamentations, joys, pains, kisses, blisses, are all united in the focus of the moment, when the lovely Rose, with the crimson of maiden modesty upon her cheeks, confesses to the enraptured Peregrine that she loves him--that she cannot express how much, how immeasurably she loves him,--that she lives in him only,--that he is her only thought, her only joy.

But the crafty demon is wont to thrust his dark claws into the sunniest moments of life,--nay, to utterly obscure that sunshine by the shadow of his baleful presence. Thus it happened that evil doubts arose in Peregrine, and his breast was filled with suspicions. A voice seemed to whisper to him, "How! Dörtje Elverdink confessed her love, and yet it was mere selfishness, animated by which, she sought to tempt you into breaking your faith and becoming a traitor to your best friend, poor Master Flea! You are rich; they say too that a certain frankness and good-nature, by many called weakness, may procure you the doubtful love of men and even of women, and she, who now confesses a passion for you,"--He hastily snatched at the fate-fraught box, and was on the point of opening it to place the microscopic glass in the pupil of his eye, and thus reading the thoughts of Rose, but he looked up, and the pure blue of her bright eyes seemed to be reflected on his inmost soul. Rose saw and wondered at his emotion.

He felt as if a sudden flash of lightning had quivered through him, and the feeling of his own unworthiness overwhelmed him.

"How!" said he to himself,--"would you with sinful presumption penetrate into the sanctuary of this angel? Would you read thoughts, which have nothing in common with the wretched actions of minds entangled in earthly considerations? Would you mock the spirit of love himself, and try him with the accursed arts of dangerous and supernatural powers?"

He hastily put up the box, with a feeling as if he had committed some sin that could never be atoned, and, dissolved in sadness, flung himself at the feet of the terrified Rose, exclaiming, that he was a wretched sinner, unworthy of the love of so innocent, so pure a being.

Rose, who could not conceive what dark spirit had come over Peregrine, sank down to him, embraced him, and murmured with tears, "For God's sake, my dear Peregrine, what is the matter with you? What evil enemy has placed himself between us? Oh, come--come, and sit down quietly by me."

Incapable of any voluntary motion, Peregrine suffered himself to be raised by Rose in silence. It was well that the frail old sofa was loaded, as usual, with books and the tools for binding, so that Rose had many things to clear away to make room for Mr. Tyss. By this he gained time to recover himself, and his first wild passion subsided into a milder feeling. But if before he had looked like a most disconsolate sinner, upon whom a sentence of condemnation had been irrevocably pronounced, he now wore a somewhat silly appearance. This, however, in such circumstances, is a favourable prognostic.

When now both were seated on the aforesaid frail sofa, Rose began, with downcast eyes, and a half bashful smile,--"I can guess what has affected you so, dear Peregrine, and will own that they have told me many strange things of the singular inhabitants of your house. The neighbours,--you know what neighbours are, how they talk and talk, without knowing why or wherefore,--these evil-minded neighbours have told me of a strange lady in your house, whom many take for a princess, and whom you brought home yourself on Christmas eve. They say that the old Mr. Swammer has, indeed, received her as his niece, but that she pursues you with strange arts and temptations. This, however, is by no means the worst; only think, my dear Peregrine, my old cousin just opposite with the sharp nose, who sends over such friendly greetings when she sees you here, she has tried to put all manner of bad things into my head about you. Notwithstanding her friendly greetings, she has always warned me against you, and maintained that nothing less than sorcery was carried on in your house, and that the little Dörtje is an imp in disguise, who, to seduce you, goes about in a human form, and, indeed, in a very beautiful one. But, Peregrine, my dear Peregrine, look at me; is there any thing like doubt upon my face? I trust you, I trust the hopes of happiness to come upon us, when a firm band has united us for ever. Let the dark spirits have determined what they will in regard to you, their power is fruitless against pure love and unchanging constancy. What will, what can, disturb a love like ours? It is the talisman, before which the nightly images all fly."

At this moment Rose appeared to Peregrine like a higher being, and each of her words like the consolations of Heaven. An indescribable feeling of the purest delight streamed through him, like the sweet mild breath of spring. He was no longer the sinner, the impious presumer, which he had before held himself; he began to think with joy that he was worthy of the love of the innocent Rose.

The bookbinder, Lemmerhirt, now returned with his family from a walk.

The hearts of Rose and Peregrine were overflowing, and it was not till late that he quitted, as an accepted bridegroom, the narrow abode of the bookbinder, whose joy exalted him to heaven, while the old woman, from pure delight, sobbed rather more than was necessary.

All the authentic records, from which this wonderful history has been taken, agree in one point,--and the chronicle of centuries confirms it,--that in the night when Mr. Peregrine Tyss returned home as a happy lover, the full moon shone very brightly; it seems therefore natural enough, that, instead of going to rest, he seated himself at the open window, to stare at the moon, and think of his beloved, according to the usual custom of gentlemen, more particularly if they happen to be somewhat romantic--when under the influence of the tender passion.

But, however it may lower Mr. Peregrine Tyss with the ladies, it must not be concealed that, in spite of all his enthusiasm, he gaped twice, and so loudly, that a drunkard in the streets below called out to him, "Holla! you there with the white nightcap, don't swallow me." This of course was a sufficient cause for his dashing down the window so violently, that the frame rattled again. It is even affirmed that, in so doing, he cried out loud enough, "Impudent scoundrel!" But this cannot be relied upon, as it by no means accords with his general suavity of disposition. Enough; he shut the window, and went to bed. The necessity for sleep, however, seemed to be superseded by that immoderate gaping. Thoughts upon thoughts crossed his brain, and with peculiar vividness came before his eyes the surmounted danger, when a darker power would have tempted him to the use of the microscopic glass; and now it became plain to him that Master Flea's mysterious present, however well intended, was yet in all respects a gift from hell.

"How!" said Peregrine to himself,--"for a man to read the most hidden thoughts of his brothers! Does not this fateful gift bring upon him the dreadful destiny of the Wandering Jew, who wandered through the motliest crowds of life, as through a desert, without joy, without hope, without pain, in dull indifference, which is the caput mortuum of despair? Always trusting anew and always most bitterly deceived, how can it be otherwise than that distrust, hatred, jealousy, vindictiveness, would nestle firmly in the soul, destroying every trace of that human principle, which shows itself in benevolence and gentle confidence. No, your friendly face, your smooth words, shall not deceive me;--you, who in your inmost heart are concealing perhaps unmerited hate against me: I will hold you for my friend, I will do you as much good as I can, I will open my soul to you, because it gratifies me, and the bitter feeling of the moment, if you should deceive me, is little in comparison with the joys of a past dream. Even too the real friends, who truly mean you well--how changeable is the mind of man!--may not an evil coincidence of circumstances, a misinclination growing out of the whims of chance, create transitory hatred in the bosom of the dearest friends? The unlucky glass shows the thoughts, distrust immediately occupies the mind, and in unjust wrath I push from me the real friend, and this poison goes on, eating deeper and deeper into the roots of life, till I am at variance with every thing, even with myself.--No; it is rank impiety to wish for an equality with the Eternal Power, who sees through the heart of man, because he is its master. Away, away with the unlucky gift!"

He caught up the little box, which held the magic glass, and was on the point of dashing it against the floor with all his might, when suddenly Master Flea stood before him on the counterpane: he was in his microscopic form, and looked extremely graceful and handsome, in a glittering scale-breastplate, and highly-polished golden boots.

"Hold!" he cried; "hold, most respected friend; do not commit an absurdity. You would sooner annihilate a sun-moat than fling this little indestructible glass but a foot from you, while I am near. For the rest, though you were not aware of it, I was sitting, as usual, in the folds of your neckcloth, when you were at the honest bookbinder's, and therefore heard and saw all that passed. Just so I have been a party to your present edifying soliloquy, and have learnt several things from it. In the first place, you have shown the purity of your mind in all its glory, whence I infer that the decisive moment is fast approaching. Then too I have found that, in regard to the microscopic glass, I was in a great error. Believe