Specimens of German Romance; Vol. II. Master Flea

It seldom turns out well, when an author undertakes to describe narrowly to the reader the appearance of this or that beautiful personage of his tale,–showing the shape, the growth, the carriage, the hair, the colour of the eyes; it seems much better to give the whole person at once, without these details. Here, too, it would be quite enough to state that the lady, who ran against the startled Peregrine, was uncommonly handsome and graceful, if it were not absolutely requisite to speak of certain peculiarities which the little creature had about her.

She was small, and, indeed, somewhat too small, but, at the same time, neatly and elegantly proportioned. Her forehead, in other respects handsomely formed and full of expression, acquired a something strange and singular from the unusual size of the eyeballs, and from the dark pencilly brows being higher placed than ordinary. The little thing was dressed, or rather decorated, as if she had just come from a ball. A splendid diadem glittered amongst her raven locks, rich point lace only half veiled her bosom, a black and yellow striped dress of heavy silk sate close upon her slender body, and fell down in folds just so low as to let the neatest little feet be seen, in white shoes, while the sleeves were just long enough, and the gloves just short enough, to show the fairest part of a dazzling arm. A rich necklace, and brilliant ear-rings, completed her attire.

It could not but be that the bookbinder was as much surprised as Peregrine,–that the children abandoned their playthings, and stared with open mouths at the stranger: as, however, women in general are wont to be the least astonished at any thing unusual, and are the quickest to collect themselves, so, on this occasion also, the bookbinder's wife was the first that recovered speech, and asked, "In what she could serve the lady?"

Upon this the stranger came fairly into the room, and the frightened Peregrine would have seized the opportunity to take himself quickly off, but she caught him by both hands, lisping out, in a little soft voice, "Fortune, then, has favoured me! I have found you, then! O Peregrine, my dear Peregrine, what a delightful meeting!" Herewith she raised her right hand, so that it touched Peregrine's lips, and he was compelled to kiss it, though, in so doing, the cold drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. She now, indeed, let go his hands, and he might have fled, but he felt himself spellbound, he could not move from the place–like some poor little animal that has been fascinated by the eye of the rattle-snake.

"Allow me," she said, "dear Peregrine, to share in this charming treat that you have so nobly, and with such real goodness, prepared for the children. Permit me, also, to contribute something to it!"

From a little basket which hung upon her arm, and which had not been remarked till now, she took out all sorts of playthings, arranged them on the table with graceful bustle, brought forward the children, pointed out to each the present intended for him, and sported so prettily withal, that nothing could be more delightful. The bookbinder thought he was in a dream, but the wife laughed roguishly, fancying that there must be some particular acquaintance between Peregrine and the stranger.

While now the parents were wondering, and the children were rejoicing, the lady took her seat upon an old frail sofa, and drew down Mr. Peregrine, who, in fact, scarcely knew any longer whether he actually was this same person. She then gently lisped into his ear, "My dear, dear Peregrine, how happy, how delighted I feel by your side!"–"But, lady," stammered Peregrine, "honoured lady–" On a sudden, Heaven knows how, the lips of the stranger came so close to his, that, before he could think about kissing them, he had really done it. That by this he lost all power of speech is easily to be imagined.

"My sweet friend," continued the lady, creeping up to Peregrine so closely, that she almost sate in his lap–"My sweet friend, I know what troubles you; I know what has so much afflicted your simple heart this evening. But, take comfort. That which you lost, that which you hardly hoped to find again,–see, I bring it to you."

With this she took out a little wooden box from her basket, and gave it into the hands of Peregrine. In it was the hunting-set that he had missed on the Christmas-eve table. It would be hard to describe the strange feelings which were now thronging and jostling in his bosom.

The whole appearance of the stranger, in spite of all her grace and loveliness, had yet something supernatural about it, which those, who had not Peregrine's awe of woman, would yet have received with a cold shudder through every vein; of course, therefore, a deep horror seized the poor Peregrine, already in sufficient alarm, when he found the lady most narrowly informed of all that he had been doing in the profoundest solitude. Still, when he looked up, and met the glance of two bright black eyes flashing from under the silken lids–when he felt the sweet breath of the lovely being, and the electric warmth of her limbs– still, with all his terror, there awoke in him the sadness of unutterable desires, such as he had not yet known. For the first time his whole mode of life, his trifling with the Christmas presents, appeared to him absurd and childish, and he felt ashamed that the stranger should know of it; but then again it seemed as if her gift was the living proof that she understood him, as none else on earth had understood him, and, in seeking to gratify him after this manner, had been prompted by the most perfect delicacy of feeling. He resolved to treasure up the dear gift for ever, never to let it go out of his own hands; and, carried away by a feeling which totally overpowered him, he pressed the casket to his breast with vehemence.

"Delightful!" murmured the maiden, "my gift pleases you! Oh, my dearest Peregrine, then my dreams, my presentiments, have not deceived me!"

Mr. Tyss came somewhat to himself, so that he was able to say, with great plainness and distinctness, "But, most respected lady, if I only knew to whom in all the world I had the honour–"

"Cunning man," said the stranger, gently tapping his cheeks,–"to pretend as if you did not know your faithful Alina! But it is time that we should leave the good folks here to their own pleasures. Accompany me, Mr. Tyss."

On hearing the name Alina, Peregrine naturally reverted to his old attendant, and he felt exactly as if a wind-mill were going round in his head.

The strange Alina now took the kindest and most gracious leave of the family, while the bookbinder, from pure wonder and respect, could only stammer out a something unintelligible; but the children made as if they had been long acquainted with her, and the wife said, "Such a kind, handsome man as you are, Mr. Tyss, well deserves to have so kind and handsome a bride, who, even at this hour, assists him in doing acts of benevolence. I congratulate you with all my heart."–The strange lady thanked her with emotion, protesting that the day of her wedding should also be a day of festival to them; and then, strictly refusing all attendance, took a taper from the Christmas table to light herself down the stairs.

It is easy to imagine the feelings of Peregrine at all this, on whose arm she leant.–"Accompany me, Mr. Tyss,"–that is,–he thought within himself,–down the stairs to the carriage which stands at the door, and where the servant, or perhaps a whole set of servants, is in waiting, for in the end it must be some mad princess, who–Heaven deliver me with speed from this strange torture, and keep me in my right senses, such as they are!

Mr. Tyss did not suspect that all, which had yet happened, was only the prologue to a most wonderful adventure, and had therefore, without knowing it, done exceedingly well in praying to Heaven for the preservation of his senses.

No sooner had the couple reached the bottom of the stairs, than the door was opened by invisible hands, and, when they had got out, was shut again in the same manner. Peregrine, however, paid no attention to this, in his astonishment at finding not the slightest appearance of any carriage before the house, or of any servant in waiting.–"In the name of Heaven," he cried, "where is your coach, lady?"

"Coach!" replied the stranger–"Coach! what coach? Did you think, dear Peregrine, that my impatience, my anxiety, to find you, would allow me to come riding here quite quietly? No; hurried on by hope and desire, I ran about through the storm till I found you. Thank Heaven that I have succeeded! And now lead me home; my house is not far off."

Peregrine resolutely avoided all reflection on the impossibility of the stranger going a few steps only, tricked out as she was, and in white silk shoes, without spoiling her whole dress in the storm, instead of being, as now, in a state that showed not the slightest trace of discomposure; he reconciled himself to the idea of accompanying her still farther, and was only glad that the weather was changed. The storm, indeed, had past, not a cloud was in the heaven, the full moon shone down pleasantly, and only the keen air made the midnight to be felt.

Scarcely had they gone a few steps, when the maiden began to complain softly, and soon burst out into loud lamentations, that she was freezing with the cold. Peregrine, whose blood glowed through his veins, who had therefore been insensible to the weather, and never thought of her being so lightly clad, without even a shawl or a tucker, now on a sudden saw his folly, and would have wrapt her in his cloak. This, however, she rejected, exclaiming piteously, "No, my dear Peregrine, that avails me nothing: my feet!–Ah, my feet! I shall die with the dreadful agony."

And she was about to drop, half senseless, as she cried out with a faint voice, "Carry me, carry me, my sweet friend!"

Without more ado, Peregrine took up the light little creature in his arms like a child, and wrapt her in his cloak. But he had not gone far with his burthen, before the wild intoxication of desire took more and more possession of him, and, as he hurried half way through the streets, he covered the neck and bosom of the lovely creature, who had nestled closely to him with burning kisses. At last he felt as if waking with a sudden jerk out of a dream: he found himself at a house-door, and, looking up, recognised his own house, in the Horse-market, when, for the first time, it occurred to him that he had not asked the maiden where she lived; he collected himself therefore with effort, and said, "Lady–sweet, angelic creature where is your abode?"

"Here, my dear Peregrine," she replied, lifting up her head; "here, in this house: I am your Alina; I live with you; but get the door open quickly."

"No–never!" cried Peregrine, in horror, and let her sink down.

"How!" exclaimed the stranger–"how! Peregrine, you would reject me? and yet know my dreadful fate,–and yet know that, child of misfortune as I am, I have no refuge, and must perish here miserably if you will not take me in as usual! But perhaps you wish that I should perish? Be it so then! Only carry me to the fountain, that my corse may not be found before your door. Ha!–the stone dolphins may, perchance, have more pity than you have. Woe is me!–woe is me!–The bitter cold!"

She sank down in a swoon; Peregrine was seized with despair, and exclaiming wildly, "Let it be as it will, I cannot do otherwise–" he lifted up the lifeless little thing, took her in his arms, and rang violently at the bell. No sooner was the door opened than he rushed by the servant, and instead of waiting, according to his usual custom, till he got to the top of the stairs, and then tapping gently, he shouted out, "Alina! Alina! light!" and, indeed, so loudly, that the whole floor re-echoed it.

"How!–what!–what's this?–what does this mean?" exclaimed the old woman, opening her eyes widely as Peregrine unfolded the maiden from his cloak, and laid her with great care upon the sofa.

"Quick, Alina, quick! Fire in the grate!–salts!–punch!–beds here!"

Alina, however, did not stir from the place, but remained, staring at the stranger, with her "How!–what!–what's this?–what does this mean?"

Hereupon Peregrine began to tell of a countess, perhaps a princess, whom he had met at the bookbinder's, who had fainted in the streets, whom he had been forced to carry home; and, as Alina still remained immoveable, he cried out, stamping with his feet, "Fire, I tell you, in the devil's name!–tea!–salts!"

At this, the old woman's eyes glared like a cat's, and her nose was lit up with a brighter phosphorus. She pulled out her huge black snuff-box, opened it with a tap that sounded again, and took a mighty pinch. Then, planting an arm in either side, she said with a scoffing tone, "Oh yes, to be sure, a countess!–a princess! who is found at a poor bookseller's, who faints in the street! Ho! ho! I know well where such tricked-out madams are fetched from in the night-time. Here are fine tricks! here's pretty behaviour! to bring a loose girl into an honest house; and, that the measure of sin may be quite full, to invoke the devil on a Christmas night!–and I, too, in my old days am to be abetting! No, Mr. Tyss–you are mistaken in your person; I am not of that sort: to-morrow I leave your service."

With this she left the room, and banged the door after her with a violence that made all clatter again. Peregrine wrung his hands in despair. No sign of life showed itself in the stranger; but at the moment when, in his dreadful distress, he had found a bottle of Cologne water, and was about to rub her temples with it, she jumped up from the sofa quite fresh and sound, exclaiming, "At last we are alone! At last I may explain why I followed you to the bookbinder's–why I could not leave you to-night! Peregrine! give up to me the prisoner whom you have confined in this room. I know that you are not at all bound to do so; I know that it only depends upon your goodness; but I know, too, your kind affectionate heart; therefore, my good, dear Peregrine, give him up–give up the prisoner!"

"What prisoner?" asked Peregrine, in the greatest surprise. "Who do you suppose is a prisoner with me?"

"Yes," continued the stranger, seizing Peregrine's hand, and pressing it tenderly to her breast–"yes, I must confess that only a noble mind can abandon the advantages which a lucky chance puts into his hands, and it is true that you resign many things which it would be easy for you to obtain if you did not give up the prisoner; but–think, that Alina's destiny, her life, depends upon the possession of this prisoner, that–"

"Angelic creature!" interrupted Peregrine, "if you don't wish that I should take it all for a delirious dream, or perhaps become delirious on the spot myself, tell me at once of whom you are speaking,–who is this prisoner?"

"How!" replied the maiden–"I do not understand you; would you deny that he is in your custody? Was I not present when you bought the hunting-set?"

"Who," cried Peregrine, quite beside himself, "who is this HE? For the first time in my life I see you, lady, and who are YOU? who is this HE?"

Dissolving in grief, the stranger threw herself at Peregrine's feet, while the tears poured down in abundant streams from her eyes: "Be humane, be merciful–give him back to me!"–and at the same time her exclamations were mingled with those of Peregrine, "I shall lose my senses! I shall go mad! I shall be frantic!"

On a sudden the maiden started up. She seemed much larger than before; her eyes flashed fire, her lips quivered, and she exclaimed, with furious gestures, "Ha, barbarian! no human heart dwells in you! You are inexorable! You wish my death, my destruction! You won't give him up! No–never, never! Wretched me!–Lost! lost!"

And with this she rushed out of the room. Peregrine heard her clattering down the stairs, while her lamentations filled the whole house, till at last a door below was flung to with violence.

Second Adventure

The Flea-tamer.–Melancholy fate of the Princess Gamaheh, in Famagusta.–Awkwardness of the Genius, Thetel, and remarkable microscopic experiments and recreations.–The beautiful Hollandress, and singular adventure of the young Mr. George Pepusch, a student of Jena.

At this time there was a man in Frankfort, who practised the strangest art possible. He was called the flea-tamer, from having succeeded–and certainly not without much trouble and exertion–in educating these little creatures, and teaching them to execute all sorts of pretty tricks. You saw with the greatest astonishment a troop of fleas upon a slab of highly-polished marble, who drew along little cannons, ammunition-waggons, and baggage-carts, while others leaped along by them with muskets in their arms, cartouch-boxes on their backs, and sabres at their sides. At the word of command from the artist, they performed the most difficult evolutions, and all seemed fuller of life and mirth than if they had been real soldiers; for the marching consisted in the neatest entrechats and capers, and the faces about, right and left, in the most graceful pirouettes. The whole troop had a wonderful a-plomb, and the general seemed to be at the same time a most admirable ballet-master. But even more handsome and more wonderful were the little gold coaches, which were drawn by four, six, or eight fleas. Coachmen and servants were little gold flies, of the smallest kind and almost invisible; while that, which sate within, could not be well distinguished. One was involuntarily reminded of the equipage of Queen Mab, so admirably described by Shakspeare's Mercutio, that it is easy to perceive she must often have travelled athwart his own nose.

But it was not till you overlooked the table with a good magnifying glass that the art of the flea-tamer developed itself in its full extent; for then first appeared the splendour and grace of the vessels, the fine workmanship of the arms, the glitter and neatness of the uniforms, all of which excited the profoundest admiration. It was quite impossible to imagine what instruments the flea-tamer could have used in making neatly and proportionately certain little collaterals, such as spurs and buttons, compared to which that matter seemed to be a very trifling task, which else had passed for a master-piece of the tailor, namely, the fitting a flea with a pair of breeches; though, indeed, in this the most difficult part must have been the measuring.

The flea-tamer had abundance of visitors. Throughout the whole day the hall was never free from the curious, who were not deterred by the high price of admission. In the evening, too, the company was numerous, nay almost more numerous, as then even those people, who cared little about such trickeries, came to admire a work which gave the flea-tamer quite another character, and acquired for him the real esteem of the philosopher. This work was a night-microscope, that, as the sun-microscope by day, like a magic lantern, flung the object, brightly lit up, upon a white ground, with a sharpness and distinctness which left nothing more to be wished. Moreover, the flea-tamer carried on a traffic with the finest microscopes that could be, and which were readily bought at a great price.

It chanced that a young man, called George Pepusch,–the kind reader will soon be better acquainted with him,–took a fancy to visit the flea-tamer late in the evening. Already, upon the stairs, he heard the clamour of a dispute, that grew louder and louder with every moment, and at last became a perfect tempest. Just as he was about to enter, the door of the hall was violently flung open, and the multitude rushed out in a heap upon him, their faces pale with terror.

"The cursed wizard!–the Satan's-brood! I'll denounce him to the supreme court!–He shall out of the city, the false juggler!"

Such were the confused cries of the multitude, as, urged by fear and terror, they sought to get out of the house as quickly as possible.

A glance into the hall at once betrayed to the young Pepusch the cause of this horror, which had driven away the people. All within was alive, and a loathsome medley of the most hideous creatures filled the whole room. The race of beetles, spiders, leeches, gnats, magnified to excess, stretched out their probosces, crawled upon their long hairy legs, or fluttered their long wings. A more hideous spectacle Pepusch had never seen. He was even beginning to be sensible himself of horror, when something rough suddenly flew in his face, and he saw himself enveloped in a thick cloud of meal dust. His terror immediately left him, for he at once perceived that the rough thing could be nothing else than the round powdered wig of the flea-tamer–which, in fact, it was.