The Serapion Brethren Volume Ii Part 25

"'You ought to be told,' said Haak, 'that his whole enjoyment consists in giving lessons--in the way which you now comprehend; and that if I and the other artists were to show any symptoms of under-valuing him or his lessons, he would proclaim to the whole artistic world, in which he is looked upon as a most competent and valuable critic, that we were nothing but a set of wretched sc.r.a.pers; that, in fact, apart from his craze of being a marvellous player, the Baron is a man whose vast knowledge of music, and most cultivated judgment thereon, are matters from which even a master can derive great benefit. So judge for yourself whether I am to be blamed if I hold on to him, and now and then pocket a few of his Louis. I advise you to go to him as often as you can. Don't listen to the cracky nonsense he talks about his own execution; but do listen to, and profit by, what this man--who is most exceptionally versed in the musical art, and has immense and valuable experience in it--has to say about it. It will be greatly to your advantage to do so.'

"I took his advice; but it was often hard to repress laughter when the Baron would tap about with his fingers upon the belly of the fiddle instead of on the finger-board, stroking his bow diagonally over the strings the while, and a.s.severating that he was playing the most beautiful of all Tartini's solos, and that he was the only person in the world who could play it.

"But soon he would lay the violin down, and pour forth sayings which enriched me with the profoundest knowledge, and enflamed my heart towards the most glorious of all arts.

"If I then played something from one of his concertos with my utmost _verve_, and happened to interpret this or the other pa.s.sage of it better than usual, the Baron would look round with a smile of complacence, or of pride, and say: 'The boy has to thank me for that; me, pupil of the great Tartini!'

"Thus, you perceive, I derived both profit and pleasure from the Baron's lessons; and from his ducats into the bargain."

"Well, really," said Theodore, laughing, "I should think that the greater part of the virtuosos of the present day--although they do consider themselves far beyond any description of instruction or advice--would be glad enough to have a few lessons such as the Baron von S---- was in the habit of giving."

"I render thanks to Heaven," said Vincenz, "that this meeting of our Club has ended so happily. I never dared to hope that it would; and I would fain entreat my worthy Serapion Brethren to see that proper measures are taken, in future, that there be a due alternation between the terrifying and the entertaining, which on this occasion has by no means been the case."

"This admonition of yours," Ottmar said, "is right and proper; but it rested with yourself to rectify the error into which we have fallen to-night by contributing something of your own, in your special style of humour."

"The truth is," said Lothair, "that you, my very fine fellow--and at the same time my very lazy-as-to-writing fellow--have never yet paid your entrance-money into the Serapion Guild, and the only mode of payment is a Serapiontic story."

"Hush!" cried Vincenz. "You don't know what has come glowing forth from my heart, and is nestling in this breast-pocket of mine here; a quite remarkable little creature of a story, which I specially commend to the favour of our Lothair. I should have read it to you to-night. But don't you see the landlord's pale face peeping in at the window every now and then, just in the style in which the uncle Kuehleborn, in Fouque's 'Undine,' used to 'keek' in at the window of the fisherman's hut.

Haven't you noticed the irritated 'Oh, Jemini!' countenance of the waiter? Was there not written on his forehead, legibly and distinctly (when he snuffed the candles), 'Are you going to sit here for ever? Are you never going to let an honest man get to his well-earned bed?' Those people are right. It is past twelve: our parting hour has struck some time ago."

The friends agreed to have another Serapiontic meeting at an early date, and dispersed.

SECTION VII.

The dreary late autumn had arrived, and Theodore was sitting in his room beside the crackling fire, waiting for the worthy Serapion Brethren, who came dropping in, one by one, at the appointed hour.

"What diabolical weather!" cried Cyprian, entering the last. "In spite of my cloak I am nearly wet through, and a gust of wind all but carried away my hat."

"And it won't be better very soon," said Ottmar; "for our meteorologist, who lives in the same street with me, has prognosticated very fine weather at the end of this autumn."

"Right; you are perfectly right, my friend Ottmar," Vincenz said.

"Whenever our great prophet consoles his neighbours with the announcement that the winter is not going to be at all severe, but princ.i.p.ally of a southerly character, everybody rushes away in alarm, and buys all the wood he can cram into his cellar. The weather-prophet is a wise and highly-gifted man, whom we can thoroughly trust, so long as we expect the exact reverse of what he predicts."

"Those autumnal storms always make me thoroughly wretched," said Sylvester; "I always feel depressed and ill whilst they are going on; and I think you feel the same, Theodore."

"Oh, indeed I do," answered Theodore; "this sort of weather always makes----"

"Splendid!--delightful beginning of a meeting of the Serapion Club!"

intercalated Lothair. "We set to work to discuss the weather, like a parcel of old women round the coffee-table."

"I don't see," said Ottmar, "why we should not talk about the weather; the only reason you can object to it is that talking about it seems to be an observance of a kind of rather slovenly old custom, which has resulted from a necessity to say something or other when there happens to be nothing else in people's minds to talk about. What I think is that a few words about the weather and the wind make a very good beginning of a conversation, whatsoever its nature may turn out to be, and that the very universality of the applicability of this as the beginning of a conversation prove how natural it really is."

"As far as I am concerned," said Theodore, "I don't think it matters a farthing how a conversation commences. But there is one thing certain--that, if one wants to make some very striking and clever beginning, that is enough to kill all the freedom and unconstraint which may be termed the very soul of conversation. I know a young man--I think he is known to you all, as well--who is by no means deficient in that mobility of intellect which is absolutely necessary for good conversation; but he is so tormented, particularly when ladies are present, by that kind of eagerness to burst out with something brilliant and striking at the very outset of a talk, that he walks restlessly about the room; makes the most extraordinary faces in the keenness of his inward torment; opens his lips, and--cannot manage to utter a syllable."

"Cease, cease, base wretch!" Cyprian cried, with comic pathos, "do not, with murderous hand, tear open wounds which are barely healed. He is speaking of me," he continued, laughing, "and he doesn't know that, a few weeks ago, when I insisted on restraining that tendency of mine, which I see the absurdity of, and falling into a conversation in the ordinary style of other people, I had to pay for it by complete annihilation. I prefer telling you all about this myself to letting Ottmar do it, and add witty comments of his own. At a tea-party where Ottmar and I were, there was present a certain pretty and clever lady, as to whom you are in the habit of maintaining that she interests me more than is right and proper. I went to talk to her, and I admit that I was a little at a loss how exactly to begin, and she was wicked enough to gaze at me with questioning eyes. I burst out with 'The new moon has brought a nice change of weather.' She answered, very quietly: 'Oh, are you writing the Almanac this season?'"

The friends laughed heartily.

"On the other hand," said Ottmar, "I know another young man--and you all know him--who, particularly with ladies, is never at a loss for the first word of a talk; in fact, my belief is that he has severely thought out, in private, a regular system, of the most comprehensive kind, as to conversation with ladies, which is by no means likely ever to find him left in the lurch. For instance, one of his dodges is to go to the prettiest--one who scarce ventures to dip a sweet biscuit in her tea; who, at the utmost, whispers into the ear of her who is sitting next to her: 'It is very warm, dear;' to which the latter answers with equal softness into her ear: 'Dreadfully, my love;' whose communication goeth not beyond 'Yea, yea,' and 'Nay, nay,'--to go up to such an one, I say, and, in an artful manner, startle her out of her wits, and thereby so utterly revolutionize her very being, in such a sudden manner, that she seems to herself to be no longer the same person: 'Good heavens! how very pale you are looking!' he cried out, recently, to a pretty creature, as silent as a church, just in the act of beginning a st.i.tch of silver thread at a purse which she was working.

The young lady let her work fall on her lap in terror, said she was feeling a little feverish that day. Feverish!--my friend was thoroughly at home on that subject; could talk upon it in the most interesting way, like a man who knows his ground; inquired minutely into all the symptoms; gave advice, gave warnings,--and behold! there was a delightful, interesting, confidential conversation spun out in a few minutes."

"I am much obliged to you," said Theodore, "for having so carefully observed that talent of mine, and given it its due meed of approval."

The friends laughed again at this.

"There is no doubt," said Sylvester, "that society talk is, altogether, a rather curious thing. The French say that a certain heaviness in our nature always prevents us from hitting the precise tact and tone necessary for it; and they may be right, to a certain extent, but I must declare that the much-belauded _legerete_ and lightsomeness of French Society puts me out of temper, and makes me feel stupid and uncomfortable, and that I cannot look upon those _bon mots_ and _calembours_ of theirs, which are continually being fired off in all directions, as coming under the cla.s.s of that 'Society wit' which gives out constantly fresh sparks of new life of conversation. Moreover, that peculiar style of wit to which the genuine French 'wit' belongs is, to me, in the highest degree disagreeable."

"That opinion," said Cyprian, "comes from the very depths of your quiet, friendly spirit, my dearest Sylvester: but you are forgetting that, besides the (generally utterly empty and insipid) _bon mots_, the 'Society wit' of the French is, in a great degree, founded on a mutual contempt of, and jeering and scoffing at, each other (such as at the present time we call 'chaff,' although it is less good-humoured than that), which soon pa.s.ses the bounds of what we consider courtesy and consideration, and consequently would speedily deprive our intercourse of all pleasure. Then the French have not the very slightest comprehension of that wit whose basis is real humour, and it is almost incomprehensible how often the point of some not very profound, but superficially funny, little story escapes them."

"Don't forget," said Ottmar, "that the point of a story is very often completely untranslatable."

"Or is badly translated," said Vincenz. "It so happens that I just think of a very amusing thing which happened quite recently, and which I will tell you, if you care to hear it."

"Tell us, tell us! delightful fabulist! valued anecdotist!" cried the friends.

"A young man," related Vincenz, "whom nature had endowed with a splendid ba.s.s voice, and who had gone upon the operatic stage, was making his first appearance as Sarastro, in the 'Magic Flute.' As he was mounting the car, in which he first comes on, he was seized with such a terrible attack of stage-fright that he trembled and shook--nay, when the car got into motion to come forward, he shrunk into himself, and all the manager's efforts to induce him to rea.s.sure himself, and, at all events, stand upright, were useless. Just then it happened that one of the wheels got entangled in the long mantle which Sarastro wears, so that the further he got on to the stage, the more this mantle dragged him backwards; whilst he, struggling against this, and keeping his feet firm, appeared in the centre of the stage with the nether portion of his body projecting forwards, and his head and shoulders held tremendously far back. The audience were immensely pleased at this most regal att.i.tude and appearance of the inexperienced neophyte, and the manager offered him, and concluded with him, an engagement on very liberal terms. Now, this simple little story was being told, lately, in a company where there was a French lady who did not understand a word of German. When everybody laughed, at the end of the story, she wanted to know what the laughter was about, and our worthy D. (who, when he speaks French, gives a most admirable, and very close, imitation of the tones and actions of French people, but is continually at a loss for the words) undertook to translate the story to her. When he came to the wheel which had got entangled with Sarastro's cloak, constraining him to his regal att.i.tude, he called it 'Le rat,' instead of 'La roue.' The French lady's brow clouded, her eyebrows drew together, and in her face was plainly to be read the terror which the story had produced in her, whereto conduced the circ.u.mstance that D. had 'let on' upon his face the full power of tragi-comic muscular play which it was capable of.

When, at the end, we all laughed more than before at this amusing misunderstanding (which we all took good care not to explain), she murmured to herself, 'Ah! les barbares!' The good lady not unnaturally looked upon us as barbarians for thinking it so amusing that an abominable rat should have frightened the poor young man almost to death, at the very commencement of his stage-career, by holding on to his cloak."

When the friends had done laughing, Vincenz said: "Suppose we now bid adieu to the subject of French conversation, with all its _bon mots_, _calembours_, and other ingredients, and come to the conclusion that it really is an immense pleasure when, amongst intellectual Germans, a conversation, inspired by their humour, rushes up skyward like a coruscating firework, in a thousand hissing light-b.a.l.l.s, crackling serpents, and lightning-like rockets."

"But it must be remembered," said Theodore, "that this pleasure is possible only when the friends in question, besides being intellectual and endowed with humour, possess the talent not only of talking, but of listening, the princ.i.p.al ingredient of real conversation."

"Of course," said Lothair; "those people who const.i.tute themselves 'spokesmen' destroy all conversation--and so, in a lesser degree, do the 'witty' folk, who go from one company to another with anecdotes, crammed full of all sorts of shallow sayings; a kind of self-const.i.tuted 'Society clowns.' I knew a man who, being clever and witty, and at the same time a terribly talkative fellow, was invited everywhere to amuse the company; so that, the moment he came into a room, everybody looked in his face, waiting till he came out with something witty. The wretch was compelled to put himself to the torture, in order to fulfil the expectations entertained of him as well as he could, so that he could not avoid soon becoming flat and commonplace; and then he was thrown aside by every one, like a used-up utensil. He now creeps about, spiritless and sad, and seems to be like that dandy in Abener's 'Dream of Departed Souls,' who, brilliant as he was in this life, is sorrowful and valueless in the other, because, on his sudden and unexpected departure, he left behind him his snuff-box of Spanish snuff, which was an integral part of him."

"Then, too," said Ottmar, "there are certain extraordinary people who, when entertaining company, keep up an unceasing stream of talk; not from conceit in themselves, but from a strange, mistaken well-meaningness, for fear that people shouldn't be enjoying themselves; and keep asking if people are not 'finding it dull,' and so forth, thereby nipping every description of enjoyment in the bud in a moment."'

"That is the very surest way to weary people," said Theodore, "and I once saw it employed with the most brilliant success by my old humourist of an uncle, who, I think, from what I have told you of him, you know pretty intimately by this time. An old schoolfellow of his had turned up--a man who was utterly tedious and unendurably wearisome in all his works and ways--and he came to my uncle's house every forenoon, disturbed him at his work, worried him to death, and then sat down to dinner without being invited. My uncle was grumpy, snappish, silent, giving his visitor most unmistakably to understand that his calls were anything but a pleasure to him; but it was all of no use. Once, when the old gentleman was complaining to me (in strong enough language, as his manner was) on the subject of this schoolfellow, I said I thought he should simply show him the door and have done with it. 'That wouldn't do, boy,' said my uncle, puckering his face into a rather pleased smile. 'You see, he is an old schoolfellow of mine, after all; but there is another way of getting rid of him which I shall try; and that will do it.' I was not a little surprised when, the next morning, my uncle received the schoolfellow with open arms and talked to him unceasingly, saying how delighted he was to see him, and go back over the old days with him. All the old school-day stories which the schoolfellow was incessantly in the habit of repeating, and re-repeating, till they became intolerable to listen to, now poured from my uncle's lips in a resistless cataract, no that the visitor could not escape them. And all the while my uncle kept asking him, 'What is the matter with you to-day? You don't seem happy. You are so monosyllabic. Do be jolly! Let us have a regular feast of old stories to-day.' But the moment the schoolfellow opened his lips to speak my uncle would cut him short with some interminable tale. At last the affair became so unendurable to him that he wanted to cut and run. But my uncle so pressed him to stay to lunch and dinner, that, unable to resist the temptation of the good dishes, and better wine, he did stay.

But scarce had he swallowed a mouthful of soup when my uncle, in extreme indignation, cried, 'What in the devil's name is this infernal mess? Don't touch any more of it, brother, I beg you; there's something better to come. Take those plates away, John!' Like a flash of lightning the plate was swept away from under the school-friend's nose.

It was the same thing with all the dishes and courses, though they were of a nature sufficiently to excite the appet.i.te, till the 'something better to come' resolved itself into Cheshire cheese, which of all cheeses the school-friend hated the most, although he disliked all cheese. From an apparently ardent endeavour to set before him an unusually good dinner he had not been suffered to swallow two mouthfuls; and it was much the same with the wine. Scarce had he put a gla.s.s to his lips when my uncle cried, 'Old fellow, you're making a wry face. Quite right, that isn't wine, it's vinegar. John, a better tap!'

And one kind after another came, French wines, Rhine wines, and still the cry was, 'You don't care about that wine,' &c., till, when the Cheshire cheese put the finishing stroke on things, the school-friend jumped up from his chair in a fury. 'Dear old friend!' said my uncle in the kindliest of tones, 'you are not at all like your usual self.

Come, as we are together here, let us crack a bottle of the real old "care-killer."' The school-friend plumped into his chair again. The hundred years' old Rhine wine pearled glorious and clear in the two gla.s.ses which my uncle filled to the brim. 'The devil,' he cried, holding his gla.s.s to the light, 'this wine has got muddy, on my hands. Don't you see? No, no; I can't set that before anybody,' and he swallowed the contents of both gla.s.ses himself, with evident delight. The school-friend popped up again, and plumped into his chair once more on my uncle's crying, 'John, Tokay!' The Tokay was brought, my uncle poured it out, and handed the schoolfellow a gla.s.s, saying, 'There, my boy, you shall be satisfied at last, in good earnest. That is nectar!' But scarce had the school-friend set the gla.s.s to his lips when my uncle cried, 'Thunder! there's been a c.o.c.kroach at this bottle.' At this the school-friend, in utter fury, dashed the gla.s.s into a thousand pieces against the wall, ran out of the house like one possessed, and never showed his face across the threshold again."

"With all respect for your uncle's grim humour," said Sylvester, "I think there was rather a systematic perseverance in the course of mystification involved in such a process of getting rid of a troublesome person. I should have much preferred to show him the door and have done with it; though I admit that it was quite according to your uncle's peculiar vein of humour to prearrange a theatrical scene of this sort in place of the perhaps troublesome and unpleasant consequences which might have arisen if he had kicked him out. I can vividly picture to myself the old parasite as he suffered the torments of Tantalus, as your uncle kept continually awakening fresh hopes in his mind and instantly dashing them to the ground; and how, at last, utter desperation took possession of him."

"You can introduce the scene into your next comedy," said Theodore.

"It reminds me," said Vincenz, "of that delightful meal in Katzenberger's _Badereise_, and of the poor exciseman who has almost to choke himself with the bites of food which are slid to him over the 'Trumpeter's muscle,' the Buccinator, although that scene would not be of much service to Sylvester for a new piece."

"The great Kazenberger," said Theodore, "whom women do not like on account of the robustness of his cynicism, I formerly knew very well.

He was intimate with my uncle, and I could, at some future time, tell you many delightful things concerning him."

Cyprian had been sitting in profound thought, and seemed to have been scarcely attending to what the others had been saying. Theodore tried to arouse his attention and direct it to the hot punch which he had brewed as the best corrective of the evil influence of the weather.

"Beyond a doubt," said Cyprian, "this is the germ of insanity, if it is not actually insanity itself."

The friends looked questionably at each other.