Specimens of German Romance; Vol. II. Master Flea

"It is all invention!" exclaimed Gamaheh, starting up hastily.–"But you are a malicious monkey, that must be tamed."

Peregrine was glad when he found himself in the open street; but as to Master Flea, he was quite extravagant in his joy, tittering and laughing incessantly in Peregrine's neckcloth, and clapping together his fore-paws till they rang again. This merriment of his little protegé was somewhat troublesome to Mr. Tyss, as it disturbed him in his meditations, and he begged of him to be quiet, for many grave people had already glanced at him with looks of reproach, fancying it was he who tittered and laughed, and played such foolish pranks in the open streets.

"Fool that I was!" exclaimed Master Flea, persisting in the ebullitions of his extravagant joy–"Fool that I was to doubt of the victory where no battle was needed. Why, you had conquered in the moment, when even the death of your beloved could not shake your resolution. Let me shout, let me rejoice, for all must deceive me, if a bright morning-sun do not soon arise, which will clear up every mystery."

On Peregrine's knocking at the bookbinder's, a soft female voice cried, "Come in!"–He opened the door, and a young girl, who was alone in the room, came forward, and asked him in a friendly manner what he wanted. She was about eighteen years old, rather tall than short, and slim, with the finest proportions. Her hair was of a bright chestnut colour, her eyes were of a deep blue, and her skin seemed to be a blended web of lilies and roses. But more than all this were the purity and innocence that sate upon her brow, and showed themselves in all her actions.

When Peregrine gazed on the gentle beauty, it seemed to him as if he had been hitherto lying in bonds, which a benevolent power had loosened, and the angel of light stood before him. But his enamoured gaze had confounded the maiden: she blushed deeply, and, casting down her eyes, repeated more gently than at first, "What does the gentleman want?" With difficulty Peregrine stammered out, "Pray, does the bookbinder Lemmerhirt live here?" Upon her replying that he did, but that he was now gone out upon business, Peregrine talked confusedly of bindings which he had ordered, of books which Lemmerhirt was to procure for him, till at last he came somewhat more to himself, and spoke of a splendid copy of Ariosto, which was to have been bound in red morocco with golden filleting. At this, it was as if a sudden electric spark had shot through the maiden; she clasped her hands, and, with tears in her eyes, exclaimed, "Then you are Mr. Tyss?" At the same time she made a motion as if she would have seized his hand, but suddenly drew back, and a deep sigh seemed to relieve her full breast. A sweet smile beamed on her face, like the lovely glow of morning, and she poured forth thanks and blessings to Peregrine for his having been the benefactor of her father and mother, and not only for this,–no–for his generosity, his kindness, the manner of his making presents to the children, and spreading joy and happiness amongst them. She quickly cleared her father's arm-chair of the books, bound and unbound, with which it was loaded, wheeled it forward, and pressed him to be seated, and then presented to him the splendid Ariosto with sparkling eyes, well knowing that this masterpiece of bookbinding would meet with Peregrine's approbation.

Mr. Tyss took a few pieces of gold from his pocket, which, the maiden seeing, hastily assured him that she did not know the price of the work, and, therefore, could not take any payment; perhaps he would be pleased to wait a few minutes for her father's return. It seemed to Peregrine as if the unworthy metal melted into one lump in his hand, and he pocketed the gold again, much faster than he had brought it out. Upon his seating himself mechanically in the broad arm-chair, the maiden reached after her own seat, and from instinctive politeness he jumped up to fetch it, when, instead of the chair, he caught hold of her hand, and, on gently pressing the treasure, he thought he felt a scarcely perceptible return.

"Puss, puss, what are you doing?" suddenly cried Rose, breaking from him, and picking up a skein of thread, which the cat held between her fore-paws, beginning a most mystical web.

Peregrine was in a perfect tumult, and the words "Oh, princess!" escaped him without his knowing how it happened. The maiden looked at him in alarm, and he cried out in the softest and most melancholy tone, "My dearest young lady!" Rose blushed, and said with maiden bashfulness, "My parents call me Rose; pray, do the same, my dear Mr. Tyss, for I too am one of the children, to whom you have shown so much kindness, and by whom you are so highly honoured."

"Rose!" cried Peregrine, in a transport. He could have thrown himself at her feet, and it was only with difficulty that he restrained himself.

Rose now related–as she quietly went on with her work–how the war had reduced her parents to distress, and how since that time she had lived with an aunt in a neighbouring village, till a few weeks ago, when upon the death of the old lady, she had returned home.

Peregrine heard only the sweet voice of Rose, without understanding the words too well, and was not perfectly convinced of his being awake, till Lemmerhirt entered the room, and gave him a hearty welcome. Soon after the wife followed with the children, and as thoughts and feelings are strangely blended in the mind of man, it happened now that Peregrine, even in the midst of all his ecstasy, suddenly recollected how the sullen Pepusch had blamed his presents to this very family. He was particularly delighted to find that none of the children had made themselves ill by his gifts, and the pride with which they pointed to a glass case, where the toys were shining, proved that they looked upon them as something extraordinary, never perhaps to recur. The Thistle, in his ill-humour, was quite mistaken.

"Oh, Pepusch!" said Peregrine to himself, "no pure beam of love penetrates thy distempered mind."–In this Peregrine again meant something more than toys and sugar-plums.

Lemmerhirt approached Peregrine, and began to talk in an under-tone of his Rose, elevating her, in the fulness of his heart, into a perfect miracle. But what gave him the most delight was, that Rose had an inclination for the noble art of bookbinding, and in the few weeks that she had been with him had made uncommon advances in the decorative parts, so that she was already much more dexterous than many an oaf of an apprentice, who wasted gold and morocco for years, and set the letters all awry, making them look like so many drunken peasants, staggering out of an ale-house. In the exuberance of his delight, he whispered to Peregrine quite confidentially, "It must out, Mr. Tyss, I can't help it.–Do you know, that it was my Rose who gilded the Ariosto?"

Upon hearing this, Peregrine hastily snatched up the book, as if securing it before he was robbed of it by an enemy. Lemmerhirt took this for a sign that Peregrine wished to go, and begged of him to stay a few minutes longer, and this it was that reminded him at last of the necessity of tearing himself away. He hastily paid his bill, and set off home, dragging along the heavy quartos, as if they had been some treasure.

On entering his house he was met by the old Alina, who pointed to Swammerdamm's chamber with looks of fear and anxiety. The door was open, and he saw Dörtje Elverdink, sitting in an arm-chair, quite stiff, with a face drawn up, as if it belonged to a corpse, already laid in the grave. Just so stiff, so corpse-like sate before her Pepusch, Swammerdamm, and Leuwenhock. The old woman exclaimed, "Is not that a strange, ghastly spectacle? In this manner the three unhappy beings have sate the whole day long, and eat nothing, and drink nothing, and speak nothing, and scarcely fetch their breath."

Peregrine at first felt a slight degree of terror at this strange spectacle, but, as he ascended the stairs, the spectral image was completely swallowed up by the sea of pleasure, in which the delighted Peregrine swam, since his seeing Rose. Wishes, dreams, hopes, were agitating his mind, which he longed to unburthen to some friend; but what friend had Peregrine besides the honest Master Flea? And to him he wished to open his whole heart, to tell him all about Rose,–all in fact that cannot very well be told. But he might call and coax as long as he pleased,–no Master Flea would show himself; he was up and away: at last, in the folds of his neckcloth, where Master Flea had been wont to lodge upon his 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 me, my honoured friend, although I have not the pleasure to be a man, as you are, but only a flea–no simple one, indeed, but a graduate,–still I thoroughly understand human beings, amongst whom I so constantly live. Most frequently their actions appear to me very ridiculous, and even childish.–Do not take it ill, my friend; I speak it only as Master Flea. You are right; it would be a bad thing, and could not possibly lead to any good, if a man were able to spy thus, without ceremony, into the brains of his neighbours; still to the careless, lively, flea this quality of the microscopic glass is not in the least dangerous.

"Most honoured friend, and, as fortune soon will have it, most happy friend,–you know that my people are of a reckless, merry disposition, and one might say that they consisted of mere youthful springalds. With this I can, for my part, boast of a peculiar sort of wisdom, which in general is wanting to you children of men;–that is, I never do any thing out of season. To bite is the principal business of my life, but I always bite in the right time and right place; lay that to your heart, my worthy friend.

"I will now back from your hands, and faithfully preserve the gift, intended for you, and which neither that preparation of a man, called Swammerdamm, nor Leuwenhock, who wears himself out with petty envy, could possess. And now, my honoured Mr. Tyss, resign yourself to slumber. You will soon fall into a dreamy delirium, in which the great moment will reveal itself. At the right time I shall be with you again."

Master Flea disappeared, and the brilliance, which he had spread, faded away in the darkness of the chamber, the curtains of which were closely drawn.

It fell out as Master Flea had said.

Peregrine fancied that he was lying on the banks of a murmuring wood-stream, and heard the sighing of the wind, the whispering of the leaves, and the humming of a thousand insects that buzzed about him. Then it seemed as if strange voices were audible, plainer and still plainer, so that, at last, Peregrine thought he could make out words. But it was only a confused and stunning hubbub that reached his ear.

At length these words were pronounced by a solemn, hollow voice, that sounded clearer and clearer,–

"Unhappy king, Sekakis, thou who didst despise the intelligence of nature, who, blinded by the evil spells of a crafty demon, didst look upon the false Teraphim, instead of the real spirit!

"In that fate-fraught spot at Famagusta, buried in the deep mine of the earth, lay the talisman; but, when you destroyed yourself, there was no principle to rekindle its frozen powers. In vain you sacrificed your daughter, the beautiful Gamaheh; in vain was the amorous despair of the Thistle, Zeherit; but at the same time impotent and inoperative was the blood-thirst of the Leech-Prince. Even the awkward Genius, Thetel, was obliged to let go his sweet prey, for so mighty still, O king, Sekakis, was thy half-extinct idea, that thou couldst return the lost one to the primal element, from which she sprang.

"And ye, insane anatomists of nature, that ever the unhappy one should have fallen into your hands, when you discovered her in the petal of a tulip! That you should have tormented her with your detestable experiments, presuming, in your childish arrogance, that you could effect that by your wretched arts, which could only happen by the power of that sleeping talisman.

"And you, Master Flea, even to you it was not granted to pierce the mystery, for thy clear sight had not yet the power to penetrate the depths of earth, and see the frozen carbuncle.

"The stars now crossed each other in strange motions, and fearful constellations produced the wonderful, the inscrutable to the purblind sight of man. But still no starry conflict awoke the carbuncle; for the human mind was not born that could cherish it–but at last–

"The wonder is fulfilled, the moment is come."

A bright shine flickered by Peregrine; he awoke out of his stupefaction, and, to his no little surprise, perceived Master Flea, who, in his microscopic form, but clad in a splendid drapery, and holding a blazing torch in his forepaws, busily skipped, up and down the chamber, and trilled forth the finest tones imaginable.

Peregrine strove to rouse himself from sleep, when suddenly a thousand fiery flashes quivered through the room, that in a short time seemed to be filled by one single glowing ball of fire. Then a mild aromatic breeze waved through the wild blaze, which soon died away into the softest moonlight.